Flight
by Seriana Ritani
Summary: Slightly postseries. Mystique unleashes the full force of Rogue’s powers against an unknown woman, leaving Rogue stranded far from home, in the power of a former enemy, and altered forever. The incident of Carol Danvers, Evolution style.
1. Chapter 1

Flight

An X-Men: Evolution Fanfiction by Seriana Ritani

Summary: Slightly post-series. Mystique unleashes the full force of Rogue's powers against an unknown woman, leaving Rogue stranded far from home, in the power of a former enemy, and altered forever. The incident of Carol Danvers, Evolution style.

* * *

"I love summer," Kitty Pryde announced, for the fourth time in as many hours.

"It's not summer," Kurt reminded her. "It's only April."

"But doesn't it _feel_ like summer? A Saturday afternoon, no school, no homework, no Logan—just me and my two best friends and the mall." She gestured expansively, taking in the wide mall courtyard, the sparkling fountain, the sunshine pouring through the skylight, the smells wafting from the food court, and the dozen or so stores displaying clothes, electronics, skateboards, books, jewelry, and anything else an American teen could desire.

"Uh-huh," said Rogue noncommittally. "Meet you guys in half an hour." She veered in the direction of Hot Topic.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Kitty grabbed her friend's long-sleeved arm and hauled with all her insignificant strength. "You are not buying one more dark, gloomy, broody, goth piece of clothing. You need something pastel. Kurt, help me!"

Kurt warily eyed the two girls, the one pulling as hard as she could, the other reluctantly allowing herself to be dragged rather than risk touching her friend. "I think you're doing fine by yourself, Kitty."

"Kurt!" Rogue protested plaintively.

"Sorry," said Kurt with a shrug.

Heartened by her victory, Kitty hauled Rogue into the nearest clothing store and began piling garments into her arms. "Try blue. Lots of blue. Blue skirts—you never wear fun skirts. Ooh, this jacket would be nice with that. Take two sizes, in case one doesn't fit. And a belt. Try all these and see which one looks best. How do you feel about salmon?"

"Yummy?" Rogue tried, struggling to hang onto the pile of fabric as one piece after another slithered toward the floor.

"The color, silly. This color."

"That's pink."

"Try it on."

"It's _pink_, Kitty!"

"It's salmon. Try it on. With this blouse. Go!"

"This is cruel and unusual punishment," Rogue muttered as she allowed herself to be shepherded into a changing room.

"You'll thank me later!" Kitty called through the changing room door.

"Five bucks says I won't."

"Shoes." Kitty snatched a pair of high-heeled sandals off a nearby rack and shoved them through the door.

"Kitty!" Rogue hissed, snatching the shoes away so Kitty could withdraw her arm. "Ya know you're not supposed to do that stuff in public! What if the Professor sees you?"

"He can't," offered Kurt, who was leaning against the wall opposite Rogue's changing room and fiddling with his holowatch. "Not today, anyway. He and Forge took Cerebro apart zis morning to run some diagnostics. Kitty could phase right through the floor and the Professor vould be se only person who _vouldn't_ notice."

"Do you think she should try yellow first, or green?" asked Kitty. "Come on, Kurt. You have to help me pick stuff out." She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the front of the store.

"She likes green," Kurt pointed out. "Vhy shouldn't she vear it?"

"Because she likes _forest _green. I'm talking _kelly _green."

"Vhat's the difference?"

Inside her changing room, Rogue sighed. Though she loved her roommate dearly, and was glad to have a friend in this lonely world, Kitty could be overwhelming sometimes. Resigning herself to an afternoon of clothes shopping, she pulled off her gloves and shirt and tried on the first of the blouses Kitty had thrown at her.

She'd barely finished putting on the much-praised "salmon" skirt, and was coaxing her feet into the absurd high-heeled sandals, when she heard a brisk knock on the changing room door. "I brought you some more things to try. Open up."

"Ah'm still in the first uh the ones you already gave me!" Rogue protested. Any more clothes in here and there wouldn't be room for her.

"You'll like these. Let me in."

Rogue tugged on the heel strap of the second sandal, settled it into place around her ankle, and reached for the latch.

Just as she turned it, a thought flashed across her mind. _Why does Kitty need me to open the door for her?_

She saw a glimpse of Kitty's face, strangely stony, and then heard the hiss of a pneumatic pistol. Something sharp bit into her arm, and before she could mutter a syllable of protest, blackness overtook her mind.

"Kitty," with astounding strength for such a tiny frame, caught Rogue as she collapsed and eased her onto the narrow bench. Though she was gripping Rogue's arms with her bare hands, she showed no sign of being affected by Rogue's absorbtion. As soon as the unconscious body was settled, the delicate form of Kitty peeled away to reveal the tall, powerful Mystique, wearing a long-sleeved turtleneck, gloves, and a balaclava.

Mystique stripped off her protective outer garments and buried them in the pile of clothes on the floor. Then she fished a communicator out of some nearly-invisible pocket in her nearly-indecent black skirt and activated it. "Avalanche, Quicksilver, you are go. I've unlocked the emergency exit."

"We copy," answered Quicksilver's voice, almost too fast to be comprehensible.

"Pyro, you are T minus seven minutes."

"I copy," said Pyro in his twanging Aussie accent.

"We are in radio silence. Out."

Mystique tucked the communicator away again and took Rogue's shape, dressed in the usual black and green goth ensemble. Shaking the white streaks of her hair out of her eyes, she left the changing room and joined Kurt and Kitty at the front of the store.

Kurt was now the one being burdened with an armload of clothes. He dropped them as soon as Kitty's attention was distracted by Rogue's outfit. "You're done already? You didn't even show us any! Wasn't there anything you liked?"

Rogue shook her head. "Ah'm just . . . really not enjoyin' this. Not today. Let's just keep movin' and look at somethin' else."

"Okay," said Kitty hesitantly, though she didn't look as though she understood how someone could 'not enjoy' shopping. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just don't feel lahk tryin' on clothes, that's all."

Somewhat subdued, Kitty nodded, and the three of them left the clothing store.

"You sure you okay?" asked Kurt quietly, laying a hand on Rogue's arm. "Don't let Kitty bug you. She's just being silly."

"Yeah, Ah'm fahne," Rogue insisted. She shrugged his hand away.

* * *

Back behind the changing rooms, the store's emergency exit eased open. Pietro poked his head out and glanced around. "Clear," he whispered to Lance. "Come on."

Without waiting for Avalanche, he zipped to the changing room where Rogue still lay unconscious. "Think you can carry her?" he asked, pulling open the door.

Lance crouched to fit his arms (long-sleeved and gloved, as Mystique's had been) under Rogue's shoulders and knees. "She's tall, but she's not too heavy," he decided, grunting a little as he lifted her. "Get her clothes."

"Which ones are hers?" asked Pietro, nudging the pile with his toe.

"They're on the bench there. She was lying on them. Hurry up and get the door for me."

"Are you listening to yourself?" demanded Pietro, 'hurrying up' as he was told.

* * *

Kitty, Kurt, and Rogue were halfway down the mall's wide main corridor when a blaring alarm sounded. Red lights began to flash, and with a hiss, automatic sprinklers poured freezing water onto the glossy marble floors.

Kitty squeaked and tried futilely to cover her head with her arms. "What happened?"

"Fire," yelled Kurt, to make himself heard over the blaring alarms. "Let's get out of here before the vater fries my projector!"

"Should we try to help?" asked Kitty hesitantly.

"Naw," said Rogue. "Fire department's probably got it. We'll just be in the way." She headed for the closest exit, joining the dozens of others evacuating the mall.

"I guess she's right," Kitty acknowledged. "Hey, Rogue, wait up!"

* * *

In the back parking lot, Avalanche and Quicksilver were wrestling the unconscious Rogue into the back of a nondescript brown car. Pyro sat in the passenger seat, blatantly not helping.

"You want to at least stop whistling?" Lance demanded.

"Don't you whistle over a good day's work?" asked Pyro.

"What work? All you did was set off the stupid fire alarm."

"Correction, mate: I set off _all_ the fire alarms. That takes a trick in a building that big. You two wanna hurry up? You-Know-Who's not gonna want to wait once she gets back."

"Here's an idea," Quicksilver grumbled. "How about you shut up and let us work?"

"She coming?" asked Avalanche, trying to keep Rogue's head from flopping over and getting caught in her seatbelt.

"And how'm I to know that? There're a couple hundred people walking into this parking lot, and she could be any one of them."

"I hate working for this woman," Pietro moaned.

"And I hate it when the milk goes sour because our power's been cut off," Lance snapped, "so shut up and do your job."

A balding man wearing a Raiders t-shirt jerked open the driver's door and swung inside. "Strap her in. Let's go."

All three boys stared at him. "Ruddy unnerving when she does that," Pyro muttered. Avalanche and Quicksilver piled into the car, supporting Rogue from either side, and slammed the rear doors. Mystique started the engine and pulled the car out of its space.

"So what're we doing with her now we've got her, then?" asked Pyro.

"As long as you're getting paid, it's no concern of yours," Mystique growled.

* * *

"Rogue! _Rogue!_"

Kitty and Kurt pushed through the crowd outside, their cries becoming increasingly frantic. The fire department had arrived, and a crowd was gathering outside the mall to see what had happened. It grew larger and denser by the minute, and neither of the young X-Men had caught so much as a glimpse of Rogue since they'd all left the mall, now nearly a quarter of an hour ago. The more people gathered, the harder it became to search without resorting to powers.

"She was _just here!_" Kitty moaned. "Right here! I _saw_ her!"

"_ROGUE!_" Kurt hollered, cupping his hands around his mouth.

"Kurt?"

Kitty and Kurt wheeled, hoping the voice was Rogue's and knowing that it wasn't, and saw Jean forcing her way through the crowd toward them. "What happened?" she demanded, her voice tinged with fear. "Storm sent me to pick you guys up when you were done shopping, but—"

"Jean, we lost Rogue!" wailed Kitty. "The fire alarm went off, and we all came out together, and I could see her right in front of me, and . . . and we lost her!"

Jean's expression grew focused, and she closed her eyes, reaching out with her psychic abilities to locate Rogue's mind. "I can't feel her anywhere," she announced after a minute. "Are you sure she didn't stay inside the mall?"

"Positive," said Kurt. "We both saw her come out. She vas ahead of us."

"Keep looking," Jean ordered. "I'm calling Logan."

* * *

Logan, not wanting to be cooped up in the mansion on a Saturday afternoon any more than anyone else did, was at the sporting goods store half a mile down the road. He arrived at the mall within minutes, and both he and his motorcycle were roaring when he tore into the parking lot.

"How do you LOSE Rogue?" he demanded, flinging away the butt of the cigar he wasn't supposed to be smoking in front of the students. "Did she absorb the elf and take off? Was she abducted by aliens? You'd better have a dang good story, because if you let one of your teammates just WANDER OFF—"

"Can you track her?" asked Jean, ignoring her professor's directionless fury.

"In a crowd like this?" Logan snarled. "I can't pick out a thing. Couldn't even tell you if she made it outside, not unless she touched something." He tried a double sniff and a snort. Then he did it again. "Hold on."

Without any explanation or apology, he started sniffing around Kurt, who fidgeted uncomfortably. "Logan, you're making everyone stare."

Ignoring Kurt as easily as Jean had ignored him, Logan grabbed Kurt's hand and sniffed the palm. Then he flung it away as though burned, muttering a word that was even more forbidden in front of the kids than the cigar had been. "Who've you touched in the past half hour?"

"Nobody!" Kurt protested. "Just Rogue, for a second."

"Thought so." Logan turned his attention to the evacuated building. "Rogue never made it out of there—at least, not with you two. Mystique's got her. Now _think_. Before she took off in the crowd, when was the last time you lost sight of her, even for a second?"

"Uh . . ." Both Kitty and Kurt were numbed into terrified panic at the name _Mystique_, which made clear, fast thinking very difficult. "In the bookstore, maybe . . ." tried Kurt, frantically combing through his brain to remember back that far.

"No, it was in the changing room!" cried Kitty. "P. Dalton's."

Logan nodded. "I'm on it. Red, take 'em home." He planted a hand on each of the students' backs and pushed them roughly at Jean. "Tell the Professor to get Cerebro running."

"Should I send Storm to help you?" asked Jean. Even though he was more focused on the hunt at hand, Logan made a mental note to praise her for how well she was keeping her head. Her good training was showing through.

"No. Chasin' Mystique's no team sport. I don't wanna have to keep checking that she hasn't replaced whoever I got watchin' my back."

Jean nodded. "Call us when you know something."

"Right away. Now git movin'."


	2. Chapter 2

Rogue started to come to, but couldn't quite finish it. There was a dull roar in her ears, like an engine, although it could have been the aftereffects of the drug she'd been popped with. The noise rose and faded at odd intervals, probably as she wandered in and out of consciousness.

At one point when the noise was particularly loud, she heard a woman's voice speaking – a low, snappish woman's voice that she knew even in her current condition. "Get her into her own clothes."

"Do we have to?" asked a boy that sounded remarkably like Lance, with something like a tremor of terror.

The noise faded again. When it reemerged, she felt herself being moved and manipulated, though vaguely, as though she'd received a shot of novocaine to the spine. Her eyes were jostled open in the process, and she saw Lance, blushing furiously, deliberately avoiding her drugged gaze.

_You just wait 'till I tell Kitty what you're doing,_ Rogue thought, but she couldn't say it any more than she could beat him off as he, Pietro, and Pyro returned her to her own clothes.

"Where're her shoes, then?"

"Dunno."

"_You_ were supposed to bring them!"

"Whatever! You were the one being all snappy about 'hurrying up'!"

"Forget it. She can just wear those."

"They don't really match."

"What do you care?"

More silence. More buzzing in her brain.

Then things were quieter. Rogue could identify a headache and a stomachache, both of which probably belonged to her, and from these points she could guess at where the rest of her body was. The roar was gone. Someone with gloves on was touching her face.

"Open your eyes, Rogue," ordered Mystique.

Rogue's eyes opened, though she wasn't one hundred percent positive the action had been her doing. Mystique's face was very fuzzy around the edges.

"Stand up."

The headache and the stomachache changed relative positions.

"Come with me."

Everything was so out of focus that Rogue had no way of knowing if she was going anywhere, or even if she was still standing upright. But an occasional tugging sensation around what was probably her shoulder assured her that Mystique had a good grip on her arm.

"Good morning. I need a visitor's pass for my daughter, please. Marie. Yes, same last name. Thank you very much. There you go, Marie."

More tugging. A ding that might have been an elevator. A hissed command: "Take off your gloves."

_Ah need mah gloves_, thought Rogue, but she must have taken them off anyway because Mystique did not say anything else to her.

Tugging. Noise. Faces approaching and vanishing in the haze.

"Miss Danvers? Excuse me, Miss Danvers!"

"Yes? I'm sorry, I don't think we've met."

"I'm Ellie Dale, from R&D. I'm sorry to trouble you—I know you must be in a hurry—but my daughter, Marie, is such a fan of yours and she wanted so badly to meet you . . ."

"Oh, of course. No, it's quite all right; I have a few minutes. Hello, Marie."

"Don't be so shy, Sweetheart. Take her hand. It's all right."

_No, it ain't! Run away from me, whoever you are! Don't touch me! Don't!_

Too late.

Rogue's awareness came shooting back into her body in a firey blaze of pain. In front of her was the woman Mystique had called "Miss Danvers." She only saw the face clearly for a second—a beautiful face, blonde hair framing it and sticking in tendrils to the sweat that glazed her cheeks, bright blue eyes wide with terror, mouth open in a silent cry of pain. Rogue had a death grip on her hand. She could feel power shooting up her arm like white-hot knives, through her chest and into her brain—

Rogue screamed. It was a sound she'd never heard herself make before: a harsh, grating shriek of agony. The muscles of her hand and arm convulsed, loosening her grip.

"Hold on, Rogue!" Mystique ordered, and Rogue felt her hand tense up again. Screaming and screaming, she tried to make herself let go. Her fingers shuddered and twitched with the pain and the conflict. Miss Danvers's fingers began to slip away, made slick by the sweat now pouring off them both.

"Don't let go!" cried Mystique. She seized Rogue's wrist in one gloved hand and Danvers's in the other and pressed the palms together.

The pain began to ease. Rogue could not stop screaming. Even through the drugs and the pain and the fear, she knew instinctively what the approaching relief meant: Miss Danvers, whoever she was, was dying.

The burning power retreated from her legs and left arm, drained from her head, condensed into a fierce line from her palm to her heart, and then faded entirely. The blue-eyed face sank into the haze and was lost. Rogue could not stop screaming. Even after she felt a needle prick her arm and was swallowed up in black unconsciousness, she could hear the echoes of two anguished voices reverberating throughout her mind.

* * *

The engine hum was back when consciousness began to re-assert itself. Her aches and pains were gone. Her mind was clear, if a little fuzzy from being asleep for so long.

_I'm probably in an airplane._

She peeked open one eye to confirm her assumption. She was lying on a metal floor under a curved metal ceiling, next to a massive computer tower.

_Yep. Airplane. _Her eyes strayed to a logo near the top of the computer. _56-320 spyplane. I wonder how she got one of those. Why didn't anyone tell us a spyplane had gone missing_?

She felt peculiarly unworried. An airplane in flight was no trouble at all. It would be an easy drop to the ground. They couldn't be more than ten thousand feet up; there was plenty of atmosphere left. She could almost see the metal walls around her writhe and buckle from the force of the winds outside. They were as flimsy as paper. She could tear them open with one hand . . .

And she did.

The wind caught her almost instantly and sucked her from the plane, throwing her clear of the engine's backdraft. She got one good look at the craft before dropping below it, tossing in the wake as though riding in a wave pool. It was fun. She had a sudden urge to yell "Whee!" as her utterly relaxed body did a couple of end-over-end flips and then settled down to the business of falling. It was going to be a long time before she hit the ground.

She decided to go back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"Uuuuuuugh . . ."

"Mohnin,' _chère_."

The flickering light that pressed against Rogue's eyelids was doing horrors to her aching brain. The inside of her mouth felt like it was coated in half-dried glue, but she managed to peel her tongue free and mumble, "If that's who Ah think it is, Ah'm gonna puke."

She eased her eyes open and looked around. She was lying on her back on a warm concrete floor in a room so tiny it was probably not meant to be a room at all. The ceiling was barely four feet high. There were only three metal walls. Where the fourth should have been, a metal grating hung awkwardly from one corner of its frame. In the middle of the room a fire burned, fueled on broken pieces of what looked like old crates, and on the other side of it, surveying her with his customary smirk on his stupid face, was the person she wanted to see least in the world: Remy "Gambit" LeBeau.

Her stomach writhed miserably inside her. "Uhhhhh . . . Ah warned you . . ."

Quick as a cat, Gambit dropped the cards he'd been playing with and maneuvered around the fire to help her climb out through the grating. She emerged onto a sidewalk swathed in shadow. Most of the lights on the warehouse-lined street were burned out. In the gutter in front of her was—thank goodness—a storm drain.

Her stomach forced its meager contents up through her throat. The muscles of her gut and throat all twisting the wrong way hurt pretty badly, and the burn of the acid in her mouth and nose was worse, but what brought tears to her eyes was the disgust and humiliation of the whole ordeal.

Gambit kept her hair out of her face with the careful touch of one half-gloved hand. "Easy, _cherie_. Get it all up and you'll feel better."

"Feel better?" she moaned. "With you watchin' me puke all over mahself?"

"Y'ain't the first I've seen who couldn't handle her liquor, her smokes, or the six different kinds'a drugs she been shot up with. Dey ain't no water, so you just spit and spit and spit until de taste goes away."

Rogue did as she was told, though it took a lot of spitting to ease the burn in her mouth. Before she was done, her elbows started to tremble under her weight.

"Shock's hittin'," Gambit told her. "Y'cold?"

Mutely, Rogue nodded. She wished she were anywhere in the world but right here. Being kidnapped was now only a fond memory.

Gambit stripped off his duster and wrapped it around her shoulders. "C'mon back inside. You lie quiet by de fire an' keep warm, an' de shakes'll pass."

Holding the coat around her with one hand, Rogue crawled back into the tiny space and flopped, exhausted, onto the concrete floor. "Where am Ah?"

"Baltimore. Warehouse district."

"How'd Ah git here?"

"I brought y'. Keep de feds from findin' y'. Dey was all over after de whole city saw y'fall."

"From—from an airplane."

"You remember?"

Rogue started to shake her head, but then thought better of it. "Not really. Just . . . lahk a dream. There was a plane, with a big disc on top . . . 56-320. And . . ."

_And a woman dying_.

The thought made her feel buoyant—not joyful, but buoyant, like she could float off into the sky and be lost forever in the endless blackness of space. White-hot panic shot through her as she felt her stomach ease up off the floor.

_It was a hallucination. Ah was drugged. It wasn't real_.

She felt herself sink back onto the concrete.

Gambit was scowling thoughtfully at her across the fire. "Y'sure it was 56-320?"

"Ah ain't sure'a my own name right now."

"What _is_ your name?"

"It's none'a your business, that's what it is."

Gambit grinned. "Nice to see yeh feelin' better. You know anything about planes?"

"Naw. The boys gab about 'em all the time, but I never listen."

"So how'd you know it was a 56-320?"

"Who cares? I wanna know how Ah fell out of it, and how come Ah ain't hurt."

"Hurt, _mon oeil_. Yeh should be dead. Yeh should be a smear on de sidewalk." Gambit selected a card from the pile on the floor and started flipping it through his fingers. "You lie quiet there and tell me everything you can remember."

Rogue told him. Mostly. The woman—there was no way she would admit to even dreaming that. But she told him everything she could remember about the kidnap, the airplane, and the fall. It didn't make a very coherent story, but Rogue was not inclined to care.

"Yeh had somebody else's powers," said Gambit when she'd finished. "Dat much pretty clear. But why Mystique wanna pump you full a drugs t'get it, I dunno."

Rogue brought her left arm up to her face and shook back her green gauze sleeve. In the fold of her elbow were six or seven tiny red dots, pinprick wounds left by a hypodermic needle. She shuddered and tucked the arm safely underneath her body. "Logan an' the Professor will figure it out. Ah gotta call the Institute."

"Cain't."

"Why not?" Rogue raised her aching head just enough to glare at him. "Ah'm warnin' you, Cajun, Ah been kidnapped enough fer one day."

"Hey," said Gambit, sounding insulted, "_You_ de one who landed in _my_ backyard. Yeh cain't call because if Mystique's really got a 56-320—an' it beats me how she'd get it—den she can hear every radio, t.v., an' phone signal fo' fifty miles around. You make a call, she gon' know exactly where you are. We gotta wait fer Cerebro tuh pick you up."

"It won't," said Rogue miserably, laying her head down again. "They took it apart for diagnostics this morning . . . or whatever morning it was. Even if they got it runnin' by now, it won't pick me up this far away unless Ah use mah powers again." She eyed Gambit hungrily. "Hm."

He held up a warning finger, the playing card resting for a moment held between his ring and pinky. "Don' even t'ink 'bout it, _cherie_."

"Then whut'm Ah supposed to do?"

"You go t'sleep. We safe enough here fo'tonight. Come mornin', we t'ink about getting' you home."

Rogue eyed him askance. "You're gonna help me?"

"Ain't nobody else in dis town t'help y', an' y'ain't getttin' all the way back t'Bayville, New York on your lonesome."

She glared. "Could if Ah wanted to."

Gambit smirked. "Yo' welcome, _chère."_

* * *

Kitty Pryde stuck her head through the ceiling of Professor Xavier's office, hardly daring to breathe. Judging from the raised voices she'd been hearing from this room, he would be too busy to notice her, and even if he did catch her eavesdropping, the chance of finding something out was worth any punishment he might inflict. 

The Professor was seated in front of the big flat-screen computer monitor on the wall of his office, which was displaying two video feeds: one of a man in an olive-green military uniform, the other of Mr. Logan.

"Please, colonel, listen. On Saturday afternoon, one of my students was kidnapped. On Sunday morning, she was seen, by numerous witnesses and one video camera, falling at an unnaturally slow speed over Baltimore, Maryland. Fortunately one of my students saw the news story, because the footage only ran once before the station went off the air. Now I hear reports of military teams combing the Baltimore area. I understand that you wish to protect your interests, but this girl is one of _my_ students. She poses no threat to national security, but she has special medical needs and must be returned home as soon as possible. Please tell me if your people have found her."

"I'm sorry, Professor, but until this matter is resolved that's classified information—"

"_What did you do with our girl?_" Logan snarled. Even though there was no way he could hurt anybody over a video line, the soldier still reeled back a little. "If you've got her locked up in some secret detention facility, then you better hope you've paid up on your insurance, because _nobody_ messes with my kids."

"Who are you?" the soldier demanded.

"Tell me where Rogue is and you won't have to find out."

"What has happened to make this matter so critical to your department?" asked the Professor. Kitty noted—and so, she guessed, had the other guy—that he hadn't bothered to call Logan off. "There are other events that you have linked to Rogue's disappearance that are causing you concern. Tell us what they are and we may be able to help you."

"That's classified, sir."

Kitty could see the Professor press his lips together in a thin, dissatisfied line. "Thank you for your time, colonel. I'm sorry to have troubled you." He touched a button on the screen, and the image flickered out, leaving only Logan's scowling face.

"He knows where she is."

"No," said the Professor wearily. "He doesn't. That almost concerns me more. What's your progress?"

"I'm only a couple hours outside Baltimore. Hopefully the cavalry will have pulled out by the time I get there and I can try to pick up a scent."

"Please be discreet. We have enough worries without pitting you against the United States Army."

"I'll do my best, Charles, but you know I'm gonna do what I have to do if I have to do it. I'm getting Rogue back. I don't care if they bring in the Navy, Air Force, Marines and Coast Guard."

"If I sleep tonight, it will only be because I do know that."

Kitty felt the same way.

Once, months ago, in a moment of early-morning kitchen quiet, she'd worked up the nerve to ask Mr. Logan something she'd been wondering for a long time. "Mr. Logan . . . have you ever killed anybody?"

He'd looked up from his newspaper with a smile completely inappropriate to the question. "No way I'm answering that, Half-Pint."

That had been answer enough. "If one of us was in trouble, would you kill somebody to keep us safe, if you had to?"

"Yes . . ." His tone had been that of a person who had not the slightest idea why he was being asked such an obvious question. But Kitty had needed to hear him say it. Sometimes life at the Institute was scary; everybody and their uncle Bob seemed out to get the X-Men. But Mr. Logan was always there, snarling, teasing, threatening, standing like fifty coils of razor wire between the students and anything that could hurt them. Many nights, Kitty could sleep only because she knew Mr. Logan was there. Tonight was going to be one of those nights. He would bring Rogue back, no matter what.

Kitty pulled herself out of the ceiling and went to bed.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Gambit's lapses into French do not normally convey anything interesting, but if the readers are dying to know what he's muttering, I'll jot translations at the bottoms of the chapters.

_Chère _and _cherie_: As you've probably guessed, these are terms of endearment. _Chère _is, to me, the more interesting, because it also carries the connotation of "expensive," or alternately "worthy of a high price." The closest English equivalents are _dear _and _precious_, which imply both that something is well-loved and that it is of great value.

_Mon oeil_: Literally "my eye." An expression of incredulity, like the English "my foot" or other less mentionable body parts.


	4. Chapter 4

She touched down, left foot first, brushing her wind-tangled hair out of her face. "How was that, Lieutenant?"

"That was good, Carol. Good run. Hurry up and get changed, and meet me in the mess. The propulsion team wants to go over their design specs with us."

"Yes, sir." She grabbed a towel hanging on the back of a nearby chair and dabbed the sweat from her face. "My gosh, this humidity!"

"That's Florida for you."

She turned to head for her changing room when a strange voice called out to her. "Miss Danvers! Excuse me!"

The voice belonged to a woman, short and plain, starting to go gray, practically dragging behind her a teenage girl in the dark garb and heavy makeup of a goth. The girl's eyes were unfocused. _Probably stoned out of her mind, poor thing_.

A great surge of pity welled up inside her. She wanted to give the girl as tight a hug as she could bear, but settled instead for shaking her hand—

And then all was agony and panic—

* * *

"_Viens, cherie_. Wake up. We have to go."

Rogue sat up like a catapult, her face covered in sweat. Gambit jumped back, careful to not let her bump into him. "You feel all right? Can y'walk?"

Rogue nodded. _A dream. Just a dream._ "Yeah, Ah'm okay."

The fire had burnt out. The gray light of dawn framed Gambit's figure as he crouched in the entrance to the bolt-hole, one hand extended to her. "_Viens alors,_" he ordered, beckoning.

Rogue didn't understand a word of his messed-up Louisiana French, but she could see that they were in a hurry. She pulled the coat off her and tugged it on over her arms, then crawled out into the cool, damp morning air.

"Dey' a train leavin' fo' New York," he told her as he led the way down the street. "Not all the way to Bayville, but closer dan here."

"Another boxcar ride?" Rogue groaned. She didn't mean to gripe, not when Gambit was helping her for no earthly reason that she could see, but she was still groggy and the dream was teasing uncomfortably at the corners of her mind.

Gambit glanced back at her, grinning. "At least y'ain't tied up dis time."

The rail yard was only a few blocks away from their hideout. Even at this early hour (Rogue's wristwatch put it at a quarter to six) there were people about. Gambit dodged between the railcars with practiced ease, keeping Rogue close behind him and keeping them both out of sight, until they reached a small building to the side of the tracks.

"Foreman's office," Gambit explained. He reached into the pocket of his duster, which Rogue was still wearing, and pulled out a short metal strip from his pocket. As he inserted it into the gap between the door and the frame, Rogue found herself wondering just how much thieving equipment she was wearing, and what she'd find if she went fishing around in the pockets.

After a few seconds, the door swung open. Gambit put the metal strip away and straightened up. "You can wash up in dere. Meet me out back."

"But what if the foreman comes?"

"Make sad eyes, ask directions to de interstate, an' den meet me out back."

Before she could answer, he was gone. Rogue glanced nervously around the rail yard, then pushed through the door.

There was a bathroom connected to the office. Evidently the foreman was used to working long hours, because Rogue also found a washcloth, a razor, and a tube of toothpaste, though the washcloth was hard and the toothpaste cap was nowhere to be found. Rogue brushed her disgusting-feeling teeth with some of the toothpaste spread on her finger, and washed the dirt, sweat, and smudged makeup off her face. She hated how pale she looked in the cracked and tarnished mirror, but she had no way to fix it, and figured that for now she should just be grateful to be relatively clean.

When she snuck around to the back of the building, she found Gambit crouched at a spigot, filling gallon jugs with water.

"Here," he said, passing her a full bottle. "Mind y'don't spill it all. Couldn't fin' de caps."

"Did you pull these outta a trash can?" demanded Rogue.

"Nah. Bought 'em at de seven eleven," Gambit deadpanned. "We're in a hurry, an' spendin' all day in a hot railcar wid no water, we both get sick." He shut off the tap and picked up the other two jugs. "C'mon. Stick close."

They dodged back through the forest of cars, climbing carefully over the couplers to avoid spilling the water. When they reached what Remy said was the New York-bound train, they walked its length for almost a quarter mile before they found a boxcar Gambit liked. He blew open the lock and pushed back the door, then jumped with unnatural ease into the car. "Pass me up de bottles."

As she passed the first, the car shuddered. "_Vite!_" Gambit ordered, practically snatching the jug from her hands. She scrambled to hand up the second, then the third.

The train gave a harsh metallic scream and began to creep forward. Gambit crouched down and reached out with both hands. "Come on!"

Rogue grabbed him and felt his hands crush around hers like iron. He pulled back as the train gathered speed, seemingly more willing to let her drag alongside the moving car than to let her stay in Baltimore. Rogue jumped, feeling the ground under her absurd dressy sandals pull away from her. She bashed her leg against the side of the car, but her chest landed on the floor. She squirmed, Gambit pulled, and within seconds she was safely on board.

"_Sacré!_" Gambit swore, massaging his hands. "Just about crushed my hands off! Good thing y'ain't heavy."

Rogue was still trying to catch her breath. Gambit flexed his fingers a few times to make sure the circulation was back, then helped her to her feet. "Help me close de door."

She set her weight to the massive sliding panel, and together they rolled it across the opening.

"_Voilà_," Gambit announced, dusting himself off. "Firs' class all de way."

Rogue sat down on a crate to examine her leg where she'd hit it. "Thanks," she muttered. Not even a mark; she'd been lucky.

Gambit shrugged. "Can't expect me uh leave 'thout my coat."

Rogue pulled the duster off her shoulders. "Here."

"Keep it, if y'still cold. Y'be sick of it when dis car starts t'heat up." He sat down with his back against a crate, stretched out his long legs, and closed his eyes. "We gonna be in hea a while, so y'might as well git comfy."

A boxcar half full of crates was hardly Rogue's idea of comfy. She felt a sudden stab of longing for her warm bed at the mansion, her clean clothes, her shower, her kitchen full of food, and all her friends who didn't have criminal records and had never purposefully tried to kidnap her or blow her up.

But she didn't have any of these things. What she did have was a smug Cajun criminal, a worn duster coat that was still pretty warm, and a free ride to New York. It could be worse. Not a lot worse, but still.

Rogue curled up among the boxes, wrapped the coat tightly around herself, and tried to sleep off the memory of her goshawful dreams.

Rogue's wristwatch declared it to be just past eleven. She and Gambit had slept, started on the water jugs, and hauled the door open when the sun had started beating on the car's roof. Now Gambit sat playing cards, well out of the draft, and Rogue was settled by the door watching the countryside as it went roaring by. Gambit seemed perfectly content to sit in silence all the way to New York, but the longer Rouge was left alone with her thoughts, the more she dwelt on things she didn't want to think about—what must be happening back home, the needle tracks in her arm, the dream-like fall from the airplane, the way the boxcar shook and twisted as though its walls were made of aluminum foil, the Memory that had not been real.

"Why're you helpin' me?" she suddenly asked.

Gambit looked up, the four of diamonds in his hand ready to slap down on something else. "Beg ya pardon?"

"Why're you helpin' me? Ah ain't no business a'yours."

He smirked. "Mebbe I ain't. Y'only got my word for it we're goin' where I say we goin'."

Rogue hadn't thought of that. "Why'd you wanna lie tuh me?"

"Habit, mebbe. Or I could be kidnappin' you again."

"Yeah, 'cuz that worked out so well last time."

He shrugged and put down his card in the appropriate spot. "Got what I wanted." Then he glanced up at her, his irreverent smirk gone. "But I wouldn't'a got outta there if you hadn't'a come back. You didn' havfta. So I owe yeh. So I take yeh home. Gambit settle his debts." He gathered up his cards, tucked them into a duster pocket (Rogue had long since given back the coat; something in the hip pocket had been poking her and she didn't want to find out what) and came to sit at the opposite side of the door.

"So . . . what were yeh doin' in Baltimore, anyway?" asked Rogue hesitantly. She probably didn't want to know what he'd been doing, but it was the only way she could think of to keep the feeble conversation going and she didn't want to sit in silence with her thoughts for one more minute. "Ah thought you'd have stayed on your home turf, with yer family."

Gambit chuckled, watching the landscape fly past. "That's what y'thought."

"Yeah," said Rogue, taken aback by this singularly useless response. "Ah know you an'yer dad don't get along, but New Orleans is still yer city, ain't it?"

He smiled—not at her, but at something that only he could see. "N'Awlins always gonna be my city. Don't mean I kin go back."

"What happened? Are the Rippers still after you?"

"Y'done got mighty nosy since last we met, _chère_."

Rogue shrugged. "Just curious is all."

"Not such a good thing sometimes."

"Better than sittin' here starin' at mah fingernails. How much longer we gonna be on this thing?"

"Long time." He surveyed her for a moment, then seemed to take pity on her. "C'mon outta de wind. You know how t'play five card stud?"

Rogue shook her head. "An' Ah ain't got nothin' to betcha, neither."

"Playin' with pebbles fer now. You kin owe me a real game."

Rogue wasn't sure she liked the sound of that, but she was bored enough to give in. She came in out of the card-scattering draft and sat down to learn how to play poker.

* * *

"Wolverine tuh Xavier."

"Yes, Logan? What news?"

"I've got a scent. Feds didn't find her. That's the good news."

"And what is the bad news?"

"There's another scent trail with her, and this one stinks like a Louisiana swamp."

"Gambit?"

"The nose knows, Chuck. There's a burned-out campfire in part of the vent system for one of these busted-down refrigerated warehouses. Looks like they holed up there last night. I tracked 'em to the rail yards, but the trail went cold. But the boys here inform me that a couple of trains went out this morning, one headed for Nashville, the other for New York. So now we've got a problem. If Rogue's the one calling the shots in this little duo, then they're headed north, but if the Cajun's holding all the cards . . ."

"I do not think that Gambit would wish to harm Rogue."

"I'd love to see him try. Good intentions didn't stop him packing her off to Louisiana."

"That was a unique circumstance for him. It was premeditated. All the evidence suggests that this meeting is by chance. I do not see any reason for him to withhold help from her in the current circumstances. Surely Rogue knows that we are willing to pay Gambit a great deal to secure his assistance in bringing her home."

"So you think they're headed for New York?"

"That is what my instincts tell me, yes."

A grumble. "Your call, Chuck. I'll tell you what I find out."

Mystique flipped a toggle switch to turn off the listening equipment so she could focus on flying the plane. "We have a heading."

* * *

Once again, the author brings you **Fun With French Expressions**, starring Gambit. Today's expressions are:

_Viens_: Come on.

_Viens alors:_ So come on already.

_Vite!_ Quickly!

_Sacré_: literally "Sacred" or "Holy." A mild oath, akin to the English "Holy cow" or "Holy crap" or "Holy fill-in-the-blank."


	5. Chapter 5

By the time the train pulled in, Rogue had at least a basic grasp of poker, blackjack, baccarat and double solitaire, and she'd taught Gambit to play Egyptian Ratscrew, which he'd never heard of before. Within two rounds he was a lot better at it than she was.

"Next trip, we bring a couple'a friends an' a pencil an' play bridge," Gambit promised her, tucking the cards away.

"What makes you think there's gonna be a next trip?" Rogue demanded.

'Wishful thinkin'," he told her with a grin.

As they pulled into the freight yard, the sky was beginning to turn orange in preparation for twilight. "Later than I thought it would be," Gambit observed. "We kin prob'ly make a good few miles before it gets full dark, but there ain't no guarantee we'd find anywhere t'sleep. An' it might rain."

"Won't rain," said Rogue. "If Ah'm missin', then Logan's out trackin' me, and if he's trackin' me then Storm won't let it rain anywhere in the country. Won't wanna wash out the scent. Let's get goin'. Ah'm sick tuh death a'this car, an' Ah wanna git home." She climbed down from the boxcar onto the gravel-strewn track, then paused. "How far've we got tuh go?"

Gambit somehow managed to shrug while swinging out of the car like an acrobat, which looked like it took a lot of upper-body strength. "Not too far. Dis railyard's way out nord'a de city proper, so goin' in a straight line we only got 'bout thirty miles, mebbe."

"_Thirty miles?_" Rogue repeated incredulously. "On foot?"

"Well, I was kinda hopin' t'steal a car, but I thought y'might not take so kindly t'that. Besides, that's the thing t'git us just the kinda attention we don'want. Fifty bucks say Mystique's listenin' to de police scanners."

Mystique aside, Rogue shuddered at the thought of arriving at the mansion in the passenger seat of a stolen car. Scott would fillet her. "On foot," she repeated. "Okay." She would kill Kitty for making her try on these stupid, stupid shoes.

"Okay," Gambit agreed. "Let's find us some dinner an' git going."

Gambit's idea of 'finding some dinner' was breaking into a small convenience store that had been closed for the night.

"Are you crazy?" Rogue demanded.

Gambit, who had a couple of skinny metal tools inserted into the deadbolt on the door, pointedly ignored her.

"You can't just break into places!"

"_Shouldn'_," said Gambit. "I _shouldn' _break into places." He twisted the lock all the way around and pulled the door open. "But I'm hungry. What's y'pleasure?"

"Ah am _not_ goin' in there," Rogue insisted.

"Den I hope y'like onion bagels, 'cuz dat's all I'm bringin' y'. Mind de laser." He stepped over the threshold, carefully raising his feet to avoid the little gleaming dots that Rogue could now see on either side of the frame. Cursing her rotten luck, Rogue followed.

"Mind y'don't mess anythin' up," Gambit warned her. "Don'need de owners callin' de cops firs't'ing in de mornin'." He took a grocery bag from the checkout counter and began piling things into it.

"Can we just git outta here?" Rogue pleaded.

"Y' like bananas?"

"Ah hate 'em."

"_Bon_. Me, too. How 'bout oranges?"

"Yeh cain't just take . . ."

An orange came flying at her head. She caught it a fraction of a second before it hit her in the nose, and as the scent of it reached her she suddenly realized just how ravenously hungry she was. How long had it been since she'd eaten? Two days, maybe? She'd been too worried and sick to notice hunger until this very second.

For a long moment she stood perfectly still, staring at the stolen orange and listening to her stomach growl. Then Gambit tugged her sleeve. "Comin'?"

Rogue looked around. The store was as quiet and clean as it had been when they entered, but Gambit's bag was now three-quarters full. Wordlessly, she followed him out the door and held the bag for him as he locked the door again.

"Neveh know we was here," he said with satisfaction as he put the tools away. "C'mon. Y'kin eat while y'walk."

Stolen or not, the bag contained a pretty good spread of food. There were several pieces of fried chicken from the deli (which Gambit reheated with his powers), five or six more oranges, a handful of string cheese sticks, a bottle of Gatorade for each of them, a tin of Altoids, a packet of tortillas, a can of unsalted mixed nuts, a box of granola bars, and a packet of beef jerky. They ate the chicken and the cheese, drank most of the Gatorade, and broke open the Altoids as they walked casually out of the little rail town.

Rogue had never felt so desperately guilty about eating chicken. _Ah'll pay it all back_, she promised herself. _As soon as Ah git home, ah'll ask the Professor to send that store enough to cover what we took. Thank goodness we didn't break nothin'. Ah mean, that _he_ didn't break nothin'. _But she hadn't eaten in well over a day, and once she'd taken one bite of the greasy, falling-off-the-bone chicken meat, she couldn't stop eating until every last shred was gone.

They walked along the edge of the highway, far enough away to not be noticed by anyone driving by but close enough that they could follow where the road led. The land outside the town was mostly fields, for which Rogue was grateful. She didn't much like the thought of scrambling through woods as darkness fell around them.

After about half an hour, Rogue started running into things. "Ow."

"Y'okay, _chère_?"

"Yeah, Ah'm fine. Ow!"

"Y'sure?"

"Positive." Twenty seconds later: "Ow! Son of a . . ."

"_Langue, chère_."

"Shut up. Can't see a blamed thing anymore."

"Hm." Rogue looked up from picking the stabbing bits of dried grass out of her shoe and saw his red eyes shining thoughtfully through the dark. Then he asked her a completely unexpected question. "When y'absorb powers, do y'gotta take the whole thing, or can y'split it?"

"Huh? Just take it, mostly, unless Ah'm real careful or whoever Ah'm touchin' got more power than Ah kin absorb. Why?"

Gambit pointed to his eyes. "I can see pretty good in de dark. You take some'a dat, an' we can keep goin' for a good long while. Mebbe find someplace less open to sleep."

Rogue hesitated. "Y'know Ah could knock y'out cold."

"Not like it's gonna slow us down any, when y'can't see t'ree feet in front'a y'."

There was a certain logic to this. Sighing, Rogue stripped off her right glove. "Concentrate real hard on the power y'want to give me."

"Concentratin'." He offered his hand to her. Rogue clamped her tongue in her teeth and pressed the tip of her index finger against the tip of his.

The world lit up. All the colors were faded and dingy, but the edges of everything were clear. Rogue pulled back and moved her hand back and forth in front of her face, marveling at the strange new color scheme. "_Sacré._"

Gambit was grinning as he tested the tip of his finger for burns. "Y'got my eyes."

"Can you still see?"

"Not so great, but pretty good. How long dis gonna last?"

"Ah dunno. Twenty minutes, maybe?"

"Den let's get movin'."

* * *

"Professor Xavier to Wolverine."

"Wolverine here."

"Logan, I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"Oh, good. If there's one thing I need today, it's more bad news."

"I have discovered part of the reason why our government friends are so concerned about Rogue. Nearly a week ago, an experimental spyplane disappeared from a military installation in western Pennsylvania. My source informs me that this plane appears in the video footage of Rogue's fall."

"She fell out of a stolen military plane?"

"So it would seem. The craft was removed by someone with clearance to do so, However, the same man was discovered two days later in his apartment with his throat cut. He had been dead for at least _four_ days before the medical team reached him."

"Well, guess whose shapeshifty blue fingerprints are all over _that_ one."

"My thoughts exactly. This airplane contained sophisticated listening equipment. Logan, it is probable that Mystique is listening to this very conversation right now."

"Well, ain't that just great."

"I'm sending Jean to rendezvous with you. She can serve as a telepathic relay to keep you in contact without risk of being overheard."

"Negative. You keep Red where she is. I'm not letting the kids get tangled up in this. I'm cutting off communications. If you find our girl, bring her in and then call me. I'll do the same."

"Logan? Logan!"

Mystique ripped off her headset and threw it onto the floor of the cockpit. "_Blast!_"

* * *

An hour later, as they tramped through the tall grass at the edge of the road, Rogue started to notice that she wanted something.

She wasn't quite sure what. But the fingers of her left hand were fidgeting ceaselessly, and she felt a great desire to chew on her tongue. She was starting to feel jittery and achy all over. She wanted something warm, and fragrant, and comforting, but couldn't remember what it was.

Then a dreadful thought occurred to her. "Gambit?"

"_Ouais_?"

"Do you smoke?"

He glanced warily back at her, probably to see if she was setting him up for a lecture. "'Ccasionally."

_Oh, EW._ "Yeh got one on you?"

He fished a pack of slims out of one of his inside pockets. "What'choo wanna know for?"

"Kin Ah have one?" She grabbed for the pack, but he pulled it out of her reach. "Please?"

"Don' tell me Miss Xavier Institute been sneakin' smokes on de sly." He surveyed her with disbelief.

"Ah've never touched them. They're gross. Please, just one. Ah just gotta have one."

A slow smile of comprehension spread across his face. "I t'ink you absorbed a little more Gambit den you could handle, _chère_. How about we call it a night an' wait fo' mohnin'?"

"Fine, whatever. Just gimme the cigarettes."

Gambit grabbed her wrist with his free hand and slapped the pack into her palm. Then, in a move so sudden it sent a jolt of terror shooting through Rogue's spine, he pulled her close to him and bent to kiss her.

The pack of cigarettes became so hot it singed her palm, and she released it a second before it exploded.

Gambit let her go, laughing as though he hadn't seen anything so funny in a year. Rogue pulled her burned hand close to her chest, noting with relief that the pain was already nearly gone, and the palm wasn't even red. "You disgusting Cajun creep! What'd yeh do that for?"

"Somebody had to blow 'em up," Gambit choked through his laughter. "I can't and you weren't goin' to. You should'a seen de look on your face. Never seen a girl so jittery in all my days. Y'fun t'play wid when y'got m'powers."

Rogue glared regretfully at the heap of ashes that had been her cigarettes. "Well _now_ what'm Ah supposed t'smoke?"

"Nothin', 'less you wan't de Canuck t'hunt me down for gettin' y'hooked on 'em. Have a mint. Give yeh somethin' t'suck on, take y'mind off it." He tossed her the tin of Altoids. "See de farm up ahead? We kin hole up dere for t'night. C'mon."

Rogue, muttering darkly, tossed too many of the little mints into her mouth and choked on them.

* * *

Jean tapped on the door of Cerebro, then eased it open. "Professor?"

Xavier removed the interface helmet with a sigh of weariness and frustration. "Come in, Jean."

She did. "I brought you some tea." She set it on the arm of his chair and stood back.

"Thank you."

"Have you . . . have you had any luck?"

The professor took a swallow of the hot tea and shook his head. "Nothing useable. Rogue is alive; I know that much for certain. But her mutant signature is erratic, jumbled. She's been using her powers quite regularly for the past our or so, but never enough for me to establish a location."

"You look exhausted. Maybe you should let me keep watch for a while. I promise I'll wake you up if I see anything."

Xavier sighed. "That is probably wise. I have not slept in . . . well, a very long time." He rolled away from the console and let Jean pull up a chair. "If you see anything from Rogue, Logan, Gambit, or Mystique, wake me at once. Logan was north of Baltimore. Rogue is somewhere on the east coast. Mystique is probably airborne somewhere above New York."

"I'll be paying attention, Professor. Don't worry."

"I know you will. Unfortunately, that does not stop me from worrying."

Jean bent over him and hugged him as well as she could. "Logan will bring Rogue back, Professor. If anyone can do it, he can."

* * *

To fill in the French:

_Bon: _good.

_Langue_: either "tongue" or "language." Either way, Rogue should be minding hers.

_Ouais?_: Yeah?


	6. Chapter 6

Rogue drifted free of her nightmares to find herself surrounded by straw. Not lying on it, exactly. It pressed gently around her, the same on every side, as though she and the straw were all weightless in free-fall.

But of course she wasn't weightless. She had to be resting on the straw _somewhere_. As she thought it, her drifting body settled to the ground and she woke up.

She fought her way up out of the mess of prickly grass, trying to remember where she was and how she'd come to be there. She was lying on a heavy wool blanket that smelled strongly of horse, in a heap of hay at the back of a narrow wood-walled stall. "Gambit?"

She kicked through the straw and stuck her head out into the hall. Gambit was crouched with his back against a stall door, feeding pieces of beef jerky to one of the farm cats.

He looked up at her and grinned. "Got straw in y'hair."

"So d'you," she retorted, combing gracelessly with her fingers. "If Ah ever ask yeh for a cigarette again, shoot me."

"T'ought I was gonna have to, fo'a while dere." He tossed the rest of the jerky piece, letting the cat scramble after it. "Dere y'go, puss." He straightened up, brushing dust and straw off his clothes. "Need t'get movin'. Farmer be out here pretty soon, and pleased as I'd be t'get caught in a haystack wid you . . ."

"You just never stop, do yeh?"

"Mebbe when I'm sleepin'. Never checked."

Rogue tried to stand up, but fell back with a cry as soon as her sandaled feet took her weight. "Ah! Ah'm gonna kill Kitty fur these stupid, stupid shoes . . ." She stripped one off and winced at the sight of the strip of raw red skin running around the back of her heel.

Gambit knelt next to her to take a look, carefully keeping his index and pinky fingers away from her skin. "Ouch."

"No kiddin'."

"Didn' y'mama ever tell y't'wear comfortable shoes when y'kidnapped?"

"Mah mama was too busy kidnappin' me tuh mention it."

Gambit smiled, and Rogue saw enough humor in the situation to smile as well, even though her feet hurt like none other.

"Well, we gotta make do, I guess." He helped her to her feet, letting her squeeze his hands as the pain of the blisters hit. "Dey's another town comin' up. I saw it down de road dis mornin'. T'ink you kin make it dat far?"

"It's either that or stay here an' be arrested fur breakin' and enterin'."

"Point."

Rogue gritted her teeth and walked, even though she wanted to scream. "What're we gonna do when we reach town?"

"Not'in' you gonna like."

"Why'm Ah not surprised?"

* * *

When Rogue walked into the shoe store, she was quite convinced that this was the most nervous she had ever been in her entire life.

_Don' try t'hide yo'self. Y'gonna be de only one in de store. Salesgirl's bored, you bored, y'ignore each other. Nobody's really interested in buyin' shoes at ten in de mornin'._

_Why'm Ah doin' this and not you?_

_'Cause you look like somebody who'd buy shoes an' I look like somebody who'd steal shoes. Dat's why._

She nodded to the girl at the counter, who was talking animatedly on her cell phone. She covered the mouthpiece just long enough to ask Rogue, "Can I help you find anything?"

"Naw. Jus' browsin'."

_Don' be in a hurry. Browse about. Try some on. _

Rogue found a pair of black boots that were close to her usual style, thick-soled and short-heeled. She kicked off Gambit's boots and tried them on.

_An' don' you dare wince. _

Rogue placed her tongue between her back teeth and bit down on it as the shoes shot fiery darts of pain through her feet.

_Find somethin' y'like that ain't gonna rip up yo' feet no more. Take one from de back layer of de rack. Take longer for dem t'notice dat._

After a few more pairs, Rogue found the shoes she wanted: plain off-white canvas shoes, the kind with elastic insets that slid on and off easily and that were so soft they could roll up.

_Real problem's gonna be de security tag. It's the chunky white number clipped onto de one shoe. Make sure you outta de girl's line a sight an' you can heah if she move._

Rogue took the shoes and Gambit's boots into a back corner of the store, keeping a sharp ear for the girl's inane conversation.

_De tag's got a chip in it dat set off de alarm if y'take it t'rough de door. So you gotta get it off before y'try t'leave. Cut right through de shoe and tug the thing off. But QUIET. If she hears de fabric rip, it's all over._

She drew out of her pocket the razor-sharp pocketknife Gambit had entrusted to her. Though it was designed to be opened with one hand, she used both to ease the blade silently up out of its handle. Then she pressed the point into the canvas of the shoe and sliced through it, just above where the tag was clamped into place.

She was stealing. She'd been following Gambit around for a day and a half, and she was stealing stuff. She couldn't banish the image of Storm's sad, tired, disappointed face when she found out. But Rogue's feet hurt so awfully, and these shoes would be so soft and comfortable—

The chattering voice stopped. Rogue froze until she heard the salesgirl pick up the conversation again.

She couldn't get the knife any closer to the tag, and there was still a quarter-inch of sound fabric left. She folded up the knife and put it back into her pocket. Then she gripped the tag in one hand and the shoe in the other, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled.

With a faint _zip_, the tag tore through the last of the threads and was free.

_Dis where most rookies get stupid. Keep y'head Put de tag back int'de box and lid it. Stick de shoes int'de tops a de boots, right in front where dey t'ickest. Make sure de knife is safe in y'pocket.. Take two deep breaths, stand up, an' go put de box back where y'found it._

She hitched her jeans up to her knees and pulled the two-sizes-too-large combat boots back onto her agonized feet. The canvas shoes fit neatly in the space between the boots and her shins. Their stiff heel seams dug uncomfortably into her legs as she rose to her feet with the empty shoebox in hand. She slipped the box back into the spot from which she'd taken it and resisted the urge to bolt for the door.

_Don' leave yet. Look around some more. Get out 'n front where she kin see y'. Ask de price a' somet'in'. Make sure she notice y'calm, y'ain't afraid'a her, an' y'got no pockets big enough t'hide anyt'in'._

Rogue browsed through the 'Sale' table, checking for her size. Most of the shoes there were hideous. She criticized them in her head to dampen out the panicked chant of _Oh no A'm shopliftin' what if Ah git caught what's the Professor gonna say am Ah goin' tuh jail that girl's gotta have noticed me Ah'm gonna kill that Cajun_ that kept repeating through her head.

"Got these in eights?" she asked, holding up a particularly awful pair of beaded sandals.

"Just got what's on the table," said the girl, before returning to her conversation.

_Den just walk out. Y'gonna wanna run, an' aftuh dat y'gonna wanna giggle, an' aftuh dat y'gonna wanna heave. Don't do any of 'em. You just stroll up de street, bored as bored kin be, 'till de rendezvous._

"Have a nice mornin'," said Rogue to the salesgirl. She pushed open the door, listening to the little bell jangle, and walked out onto the street.

It was as quiet and ordinary a morning as ever she'd seen. No one was paying her any attention. She could have walked right past the police station with those stolen shoes tucked into her boots, and nobody would have cared.

_Ah did it. Ah cain't believe Ah did it._

Her heart rate started to come down, leaving her with cold shivers of adrenalin withdrawl running under her skin. _Ah cain't believe Ah just got away with that_. _Ah gotta be crazy_. She was shaking, and wanted so badly to giggle that she had to bite down hard on her tongue until she passed the last store on the town's main street and reached the county road street sign where Gambit was waiting for her.

When she saw his raised eyebrow, plainly asking _Well?_, and his bare feet half-hidden in the grass, she couldn't hold it in anymore. She ran at him, blisters forgotten, and laughed until she nearly choked. "Ah did it! Ah did it!"

Gambit laughed too. "_Formidable!_" He grabbed both her hands as she reached him and spun her around three whole times. "_La voilà, ma chère, qu'elle a du vrai talent!_"

Rogue stumbled, laughing and coughing, and dropped to the grass on the side of the road. "Ah cannot _believe_," she choked, pulling the shoes out of their hiding place, "that Ah let y'talk me intuh that."

Gambit dropped next to her and pulled something out of his vast array of pockets. "Gotcha a congratulations present."

It was a tube of Neosporin. Rogue laughed at how delighted she was to see such a simple thing, and how little she cared right now where it had come from. She pulled the tube out of its box and unscrewed the cap while Gambit pulled more delights from the hidden recesses of his coat. A box of Band-Aids. A frozen burrito and a couple packets of hot sauce to go with it. Another bottle of Gatorade, and one of water. And, luxury of luxuries, an ice-cream sandwich.

"Bettuh eat dat first," he told her, passing the confection and unwrapping one for himself. "Gettin' kinda squishy."

Rogue pressed the band-aid she'd been preparing onto her blistered heel, wiped the antibiotic ointment off her fingers onto the grass, and happily set into the sandwich. "Mah gosh, Ah died an' gone t'heaven." No bought-and-paid-for treat had ever tasted so good. Some part of her mind wailed about what her professors would think of her behavior, crying that she aught to be ashamed of herself. And she was, a little. But not nearly as ashamed as she was glad, of her precious ice cream sandwich and of the wonderful, pain-free shoes that she'd whisked away her very own self.

Gambit grinned. "Y'd t'ink I stole y' de Crown Jewels outta de Tower a'London 'stead of a couple snacks from a gas station."

"_Could_ yeh git the Crown Jewels out of the Tower of London?" asked Rogue, ineffectually wiping smudges of chocolate cookie off her face.

"_Chère,_ I steal de Mona Lisa outta de Louve fo' y't'hang in y'bedroom if y'want, just t'see dat smile again."

Rogue was suddenly aware of just how much she was smiling, and how unable she was to stop. "An' what if Ah said Ah wanted the 'Winged Victory of Samothrace' instead? Don't much like the Mona Lisa."

"Dat take me mebbe a week extra. She pretty heavy. What y'gon do wid her?"

Rogue flopped back onto the grass, one hand behind her head and the other still holding the ice cream. "Stand her on the mansion lawn and make a water fountain outta her. Dress her up with a scarf in the wintertime. Dance around her in the middle of the first night after school gits out."

"Wearin' what?" Gambit inquired. He, too, lay back on the grass, but on his side, propped up on one elbow. That mischievous grin was back.

She ripped up a handful of grass and threw it at him. "Yer just awful!"

"An' jus' fo'dat, I'm takin' back de ice cream."

"Don't you dare!" Rogue squirmed away from him as he lunged to grab the treat, stuffing the rest of it in her mouth. "Ha!"

He was laughing so hard that he barely had the strength to keep from falling on top of her. She was laughing so hard that she choked on the ice cream, and of course this only made them both laugh harder.

Rogue had never had such a wonderful morning. She had no idea how long they lay there, barefoot in the grass, eating their stolen food and laughing like idiots. No unpleasant thoughts dared to cross her mind—not her dream, not her frantic friends back home, not her isolating powers, not her sordid past, not her companion's criminal record. There had never been anything in the whole world but her and Remy and their lifesaving, ill-gotten gains.

"Ah cain't remember when Ah laughed so hard," said Rogue, breathless, as she stared up at the fluffy white clouds lazing across the sky.

"_Moi n'en plus_," agreed Gambit. "I should kidnap y'more often."

"Or yeh could just come pay a visit lahk a normal person." She turned her head sideways to look at him. "Or yeh could come to stay, y'know."

He turned to look at her, both hands tucked behind his head. "Come t'stay? Take orders from Scott Summers an' de Wolverine? Go to school? Go t'bed when I'm told, get up when I'm told, wear contacts t'hide my eyes, never bust a job again? _Non, merci_."

"Yeh make it sound a lot worse than it is. I mean, sure Scott's uptight sometimes, and Logan's a slave driver, but they care about the team. Livin' there's lahk family—a real family, where people take care of each other, not some legalized kidnap lahk we went through. And there's beds and hot'n'cold running water and a kitchen full of food."

"Sounds real comfy."

"Don't you just brush me off lahk Ah don't know what Ah'm talkin' about! Ah got a home and people who care about me, an' yer livin'by yerself in the vents of abandoned warehouses. Yeh told me yeh couldn't go back to New Orleans, so why not come with me? The Professor'd be over the moon to have yeh."

"Bet he'd be ovuh de moon 'bout m'rap sheet, too."

"That doesn't matter. A lot of us had pretty colorful histories when we signed on. Long as you ain't killed nobody or nothin' . . . and Kitty's pretty convinced that Logan's killed at least one person, 'cause he won't talk about it . . ."

"Any an' all reforme' criminals welcome, dat it?"

"Just about."

That insufferable I'm-trouble-and-I-know-it grin flashed again. "I'm in no hurry t'reform, _chère_." He sat up and started pulling on his boots. "C'mon. We been lyin' hea all mornin', an' we betta git movin' if y'wanna get home sometime dis month."

Rogue slipped on her slightly torn new shoes, thanking any god who was listening for the softness of them and the merciful cushioning of the band-aids. She'd put three on each heel, just to be safe. Gambit packed their remaining snacks into the endless pockets of his coat, stuffed all the old wrappers into the grocery bag, and with a touch reduced the whole mess to ashes.

When he set off walking again, it was not along the road, but across the field to their left. "Shortcut," he explained when he caught Rogue glancing at him with trepidation. "Dis road meet up wid de freeway in Evansport, an' da's a long way outta our way. Cut straight across, we move faster an' we got tree cover fo' mosta de trip."

"What if we git lost in there?" asked Rogue, eyeing the distant tree line.

"Can't. If we veer left, we meet de freeway, veer right an' we meet de coast."

Rogue combed through her memory for a map of the area around Bayville. She knew where the freeway was; she'd driven it plenty of times to go into the city with the other X-Men. And the Atlantic Ocean was pretty hard to miss. If they were in the triangle between those two landmarks, and Remy seemed pretty sure that they were, it was only a matter of time before they reached Bayville. She resigned herself to tramping through the dark and creepy New England woods, and cast her mind back to their earlier conversation to take her mind off the looming line of darkness.

"Y'know whut Ah think?" she asked, when they were about forty rows into the field.

"Wha's dat?"

"Ah think that's all talk about you not wantin'tuh be cooped up at the Institute."

"_Eh bien?_"

"Ah think the reason y'won't stay is 'cuz you're scared Scott's gonna kick yer butt the first time yeh hit the Danger Room."

Gambit chuckled. "Keep t'inkin."

"Whatever. He's taller than you and he's been trainin' with Wolverine since he was twelve. He'd kick yer trash, and he'd make sure he did it when all the girls in the house were watchin', 'cause he _really_ doesn't lahk you and makin' you look lahk a moron would make his day."

"Don' try playin' a playuh, _chère_. I see what y'doin'."

"Betcha they don't know the first thing about real fightin' in New Orleans."

He turned and glared at her. "Dat was low."

"Only low if it's true. C'mon, you're s'posed tuh be a gambler. Betcha you couldn't last one round against Scott."

"What'choo gon' bet me?"

"Whadda you want?"

"Dinner. I make yo' hotshot crush yell '_oncle_' an' you make me dinner. Five courses. Cheesecake fo'dessert."

"He ain't mah crush, an' Ah cain't cook."

"He is, an' bettuh learn quick."

Rogue snorted. "Fahne. Y'ain't gonna win anyway."

"An' what'choo want if you win dis bet? Wan' me t'stay at de mansion?"

"Lahk Ah care _what_ you do."

"Like y'don't."

Rogue grinned wickedly, and she saw Gambit blanch a little. "F'Ah win, an' Scott wipes the floor with you, then you bring me the Winged Victory of Samothrace."

"Done."

"Fahne."

After a minute or so of silence, Rogue asked warily, "Y'do know Ah wuz kiddin', right?"

A smirk was all the response she received.

* * *

Notes on the French:

_Formidable_: Awesome!

_Qu'elle a du vrai talent! _She has real talent!

_Moi n'en plus _: Me, neither.

_Eh bien?_ Oh, really?


	7. Chapter 7

Wolverine, stuffing the keys to his motorcycle into the pocket of his jeans, began to prowl the rail yard on the north edge of the Bronx. The train he'd been following had already gone on its way up toward Maine, leaving him with no starting point for his tracking. Not that it mattered. The train had only come in last night. The scents wouldn't be fresh, but they'd be there. That was the benefit of having Storm covering for him at home.

After some hunting, he found the trail. Gambit and Rogue. No blood-scent: neither was hurt. He followed them out of the train yard and into the town, where it led into a small little-bit-of-everything grocery store.

"Good morning to you," said the owner, a gray-haired man with smile lines prominently marked around his mouth, who was restocking cans of tomato soup. "How can I help you this morning?"

"I'm looking for a couple of kids. Boy and a girl. The girl's sixteen, short red hair with white streaks around her face, dressed in black with gloves. Boy's maybe nineteen, red ponytail, long coat. Ringin' any bells?"

The man shook his head. "No. I'm sorry. I haven't seen anyone like that. I tend to see anyone who passes on the street, and I've been in the shop since five this morning."

"What about last night?"

"Oh, we close up pretty early. I live outside town, and like to be home in time for dinner. But my assistant lives in the building across the street, so maybe he saw something." The shopkeeper raised his voice. "Ricky!"

A skinny teenager with untidy brown hair emerged from a back room, dusting his hands off on his jeans. "Yes sir?"

"This gentleman is looking for a boy and girl about your age who may have come through here last night."

Ricky gave Logan an appraising glance-over. "Guy in a long coat, and a goth?"

"That's them," Logan affirmed.

"Yeah, I saw them. I thought the guy was the nephew you're always talking about, Mr. Tullin."

"Why did you think that?"

"Well, he had a key to the store. At least, I thought he did. I just happened to glance out of the window and saw him come out with a bag full of stuff, him and the girl. They didn't act suspicious or anything. He locked the door up behind him and they walked off, so I assumed they were visiting you and you'd given him the key to pick some stuff up for dinner."

Mr. Tullin the shopkeeper was suddenly nervous. "Did you check the till when you came in this morning?"

"Yes, sir. It was only four cents off Julie's check-out numbers from last night. Usually we're off by a lot more than that."

"Well, thank goodness for that, at least." He turned to Logan. "Why are you looking for these two? Are you with the police?"

"No. But thanks for your help." Logan reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a five-dollar bill and a pen. He scribbled his cell number across the bill, then handed it to Tullin. "That's for a bottle of water. Call when you figure out what's missing. I'll see you're compensated."

* * *

"_Dans la prison de Nantes, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon . . . dans la prison de Nantes, y'avait un prisonnier, y'avait un prisonnier . . . _" 

"Didn't know yeh could sing."

"Cain't if y'talkin. _Personne ne veint le voaire, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon . . . personne ne veint le voaire sauf la fille du geolier, sauf la fille du geolier . . ._ "

He wasn't an amazing singer, but the tune was a soothing one, with a mysterious, gypsy flavor to it, and he sang it with a strong steady rhythm that made it easier to keep putting one tired foot in front of the other. The woods did not appreciate being walked through, and navigating them involved a lot of tripping over uneven ground and unsnagging clothing from bushes. She stuck close behind Remy so his long legs and heavy boots could clear the path a little.

The song repeated itself a lot, especially the _digilondilon_ part, which Rogue suspected was more nonsense than actual words. After three or four verses, she started to pick up on the pattern, and after another two verses she started to join in. As soon as he heard her, Gambit started singing more slowly and clearly, making it easier for her to mimic the incomprehensible sounds.

"_Quand il fut sur la grève, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon, quand il fut sur la grève, il se mit a chanter, il se mit a chanter_."

"Cain't get 'em tuh come outta mah mouth right."

"Y'doin fine. _Que Dieu bennisse les filles, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon, que Dieu bennisse les filles, surtout celle du geolier, surtout celle du geolier._"

"Ah know yeh just made that one up tuh stump me."

"_Si je reviens à Nantes, lon digidigidon, de guilon dilon digidigidon, si je reviens à Nantes, je lui épouserai, je lui épouserai_."

He didn't start up another verse, leading Rogue to believe that whatever the song had been, it was over now. "Pretty tune," she offered. "Sounds sad, though."

Remy shrugged. "Depends on how y'look at it."

"What's it about?"

"It tell a story. Dey's a prisoner, locked up in a prison in Nantes. Dat's a city in France. River city like N'Awlins. Night befoh he gon' die, de jailer's daughter set him loose."

"Why'd she do a stupid thing lahk that?"

"Dunno. All de song say is dat she was _jeunette_ . . . young."

"What was he in prison for?"

"No idea. Anyway, he jump int'de river and swim t'd'other side, and when he safe on d'other shore, he blesses all girls, 'specially dat one, an' swears he'll marry her if he eveh come back."

"Does he?"

"Does he what?"

"Come back and marry her."

Remy shrugged. "Da's de end'a de song."

"What?" Rogue demanded. "How can it just end there? How'm Ah supposed tuh know what happens?"

Remy chucked at her. "Dat's where it's ended fo' hundreds a years, _chère_. An mebbe it's bothered every girl whose ever sung it, but endin' oh no, dey kept singin' it anyway. So you tell me how it ends. As much yo' song as anybody's now."

Rogue thought about this for a few minutes. "Ah think he came back," she finally decided. "But he'd been gone so long, she'd married somebody else."

"You just mad at him 'cause he didn't kiss her before he went, so you try t'git back at him wid a mean endin' like dat."

"Naw! It just didn' feel right for him tuh come back and have her all ready with a dress and flowers and everything. It doesn't match the tune, somehow. It's so sad. Ah thought mebbe she jumped in the river too, tuh run away with him, but she kept drownin' before she reached th'other side."

Remy nodded. "I always thought he went back fo'her an' dey both got shot."

"So what're you gripin' about mah ending for? That's horrible!"

"'S de way Romeo an' Juliet went, an' I don' heah dem complainin'."

"You read Romeo and Juliet?"

"_Non_, but I got a fairly good idea'a what happens."

Rogue thought for a while longer, struggling to keep up with Remy's long strides. "Maybe," she said at length, "he went an' joined the army, won himself glory in battle and got his sentence forgiven. Then soon as the war was over he came back and married her after all."

"Mebbe," Remy offered, "if dere was a war, t'ings got so bad in Nantes she turn' to a life of crime, an' dey met up on de same job an' ran away t'gether t'be pirates or somet'ing."

"As long as we've decided there was a war," said Rogue, "what if they both had tuh leave the country? Then they meet up someplace else, where he don't have to be on the run and she ain't a jailer's daughter, and they got to start over."

Remy thought this over and nodded. "Best we can hope for, I guess."

Rogue did not feel particularly satisfied with this resolution, but decided that there was nothing further to be said. Instead, she asked, "Would you sing it again? I was just gettin' the hang of it by the end. An' it's not like we have anythin' else tuh do."

Remy obligingly started the song over again. "_Dans la prison de Nantes, lon digidigidon . . ._"

* * *

Logan pulled his motorcycle over to the side of the road and pulled off his helmet to get a better view of the sky. There was an airplane above him. It was too high for him to identify, but as he watched, it passed him, approached the horizon, then banked and circled back. Pilots didn't fly that way if they had somewhere to be. 

Logan pulled out his cell phone and dialed the mansion.

"Xavier Institute, Bobby Drake speaking."

"Bobby, it's Wolverine. Don't say another word. Just go get Storm and put her on the phone."

"Okay . . ."

"That's a word, Bobby! Get goin'!"

There was a thud at the other end of the line as Iceman dropped the phone. A minute later, Storm's voice arrived, sounding out of breath. "I am here, Logan."

"I'm about fifty miles due south of you, and I got a buzzard. Hey, Mystique. How's the weather up there?"

After a moment of silence, another voice broke into the phone line. "It's lovely, Professor Logan."

"That's great. Storm, give me some cover, would ya? I hate workin' when somebody's watchin' over my shoulder." He snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

* * *

Back at the mansion, Storm returned the phone to its cradle on the wall of the kitchen, then turned and ran for the den. "I need the television," she announced to Jean, Scott, Kurt and Kitty, who were watching a mid-afternoon sitcom. 

"Sure," said Scott, sounding worried but knowing his teacher too well to think that now was a good time for asking questions. He handed over the remote as the others scrambled off the couch to give Storm somewhere to sit down.

Storm switched the cable station to the weather channel.

"Man, she _always _wants to watch this," Kurt griped.

Storm stared intently at the screen, her eyes whiting out as she drew on her power. Her lips moved in silent whispers, and the satellite image began to change.

"It looks like we have some fog just coming in to hit the northern New York coast . . ." the weatherman announced, sounding confused.

". . . eternal mists, roll forth, descend upon the land and shield my friends, protect them with your cloak of darkness from those who would do them harm, protecting fog, hear my command, come at my beckoning . . ."

"Is she, like, talking to her powers?" asked Kitty, unnerved enough to fall back into her Valley accent.

"If she's keeping Logan and Rogue safe, she can read them Henry the Fifth for all I care," Scott decided.

"Do you think he found her?" asked Kurt. He ported up into the light fixture above Storm's head so he could see the screen better.

"If he had, we'd be going out there in the jet," said Scott.

"Logan has not found Rogue," Storm announced, interrupting her own muttered monologue. "But Mystique has found Logan. The fog should break her visual contact so that Logan can continue his search without coming to combat against her." She narrowed her milk-white eyes at the screen, and another dark blue swirl of low pressure spread across the satellite image of New York. The light coming through the windows dimmed.

Kurt's tail lashed fiercely, striking his shoulders and making the chandelier swing. "Vhy aren't ve _out there_? Mystique is too dangerous for Logan to handle by himself. And if Rogue's hurt, or—"

"Kurt, either _calm _down or _come_ down," Scott ordered, pointing to the ceiling where the plaster was starting to flake away from the chandelier's mount.

Kurt obediently reappeared on the ground. "Ve should be _doing_ something!"

Kitty sighed and phased out so that Kurt's lashing tail could pass through her calves instead of smacking incessantly against them.

"We are doing something," Storm insisted. Her eyes were rapidly regaining their usual color as she stood up to face them. "We are trusting Logan, and giving him the support he asks for. You must be patient, Kurt. When Logan and the Professor decide that our presence will cause more good than harm, we will go."

Kurt moaned and took a frustrated swipe at a convenient lamp. His hand went through it as though it weren't even there; Kitty had planted a hand on his back and phased him out before he could break anything.

Kurt snarled something in full-on German and vanished from the room.

For a long moment, those remaining exchanged worried glances in silence. Then Kitty asked, "What did he say?"

"I don't quite understand it," said Jean, "but what I heard in his mind was, 'I wish I'd pushed her myself'."

* * *

**Notes on the French**: 

_La Prison de Nantes_ and its many variations are sung in the Bretagne region of northern France as well as in Quebec, from which the ancestors of the Louisiana Cajuns first migrated. If you'd like to hear the tune, you can find an audio file here:

http://www(dot)skullpat(dot)com/index(dot)php/2006/10/24/28-musique-bretonne-musique-quebecoise

Just replace the (dot)s with actual dots. Load the little blue player just above the lyrics to _Les Prisons de Nantes (Bretagne) _for an idea of the melody. Just keep in mind that Remy sings this song as I learned it: slow and sad, with a steady rhythm that keeps you moving forward even when you have nothing left to give.


	8. Chapter 8

"Oh, gosh!" Rogue cried as the first tendrils of fog hit the back of her neck. "Fog? At four in the afternoon?"

"Not so normal up here," Gambit agreed, surveying the oncoming wall of mist with an air of mild interest. "Dis yo'teacher's handiwork?"

"Probably. I can't think of anything else that could cause it." Rogue folded her arms around herself as the air became chilly. "She's laying it on a little thick, though."

"So she know where we are?"

"Maybe. But she could have fogged out the whole east coast. I once saw her hit five cities in five different states with thunderstorms at the exact same time."

"If dey was in five different states, how you know she done dem all at de same time?"

"It was on the weather channel."

Gambit fastened up the front of his coat and turned up the collar to protect his neck.

"You know what I bet this means, though?" Rogue asked as she trudged gamely onward in Gambit's footsteps.

"_Quoi?_"

"I bet it means Storm knows that Mystique has an airplane. The fog's pretty miserable down here, but it's a nightmare for planes. She'll have to fly outside of the fog zone and find an airport where she can land, or else just circle for hours hoping that it clears."

"So sad for her. But it be pretty easy to catch up wid us if we stalled in dis stuff fo' long."

"Whadda you mean, 'stalled'?"

"Can you see where you goin'?"

"I thought you could!"

"I can see in de dark. Dis ain't dark. Dis need X-ray vision." He stopped walking, letting the fog settle in around them and start soaking through their clothes. "We ain' goin' much anywhere 'till dis clears."

Rogue shivered with cold and with dread. "But it's freezing!"

"Not freezing," Gambit corrected. "Cold an' wet, which is mebbe worse. Snow y'just brush off. Fog soaks you through."

"Glad I'm stuck out here with a positive thinker," Rogue muttered.

Blinding light flared in front of her, making her wince away, then lean forward as she realized that the light was accompanied by warmth. Gambit had lit a card (the deuce of diamonds: she could still see it through the flickering pink-tinted light) and held it above his head. The heat sent the mist sizzling away, letting them see the forest around them.

"We gotta git some shelter oh we freeze t'death out here," Gambit observed, cheerful as ever. "Ah, dere we go."

Rogue looked where he indicated, squinting hard to make anything out in the flickering and barely-sufficient light. Just in front of them and a bit to the right was a large slab of rock, deposited there by some long-forgotten glacier.

"That's a rock," Rogue announced, in case he'd missed this important fact.

"Dat is you' luxury suite," said Gambit. He shoved the card into her hand. "Hold dis."

"Ain't it gonna blow up?" Rogue demanded.

"Not fo'a couple hours." Gambit was now stripping off his coat. "Hold it up so I kin see what I'm doin'."

Despite her best intentions, Rogue was pretty impressed with what Gambit ended up doing. Using some string that had been riding about in his pocket for who-knew-how-long, he hung his collapsible quarterstaff so it rested about two feet off the surface of the rock. Then he hung his duster over the staff and tied down the corners, creating a small but serviceable tent.

"Crawl in," he invited, waving her in like it was a five-star restaurant instead of a coat hung over a rock. "Dis keep us warm an' dry enough 'till de fog clears."

Rogue already had her head inside the tent. She pulled back a second. "_Us_? You plannin' on comin' in here, too?"

"Chivalry's all well an' good, _chère_, but I an'too interested in sittin' in dis ice water. I'm goin' in. You kin' sit outside an' freeze if y'want."

Rogue felt as though she aught to glare at him for this, but she was less annoyed than she was frightened. "But what if Ah touch you?"

Gambit flashed his wicked grin. "Well, I know how hard it is fo'you t'keep yo'hands off me, but I got faith you kin control y'self fo'a couple'a hours."

Rogue did manage to glare this time, and without further comment she stuffed the glowing card into his hand and flung herself into the tent. Gambit crawled in after her.

She lay on her stomach on the rock, as close to the coat as possible, her arms tucked underneath her body so that she took up the minimum amount of precious space. It was darker in the little shelter, but the longer she lay there the warmer it became. She lay with her face towards the tent wall, wishing desperately that this whole situation were even the tiniest bit less awkward. She wasn't touching any part of Gambit, but she could hear him beside her, adjusting his position until he was comfortable.

The coat started to glow, and heat radiated from it, burning off the last of the fog. It scorched her cheeks, forcing her to turn her head.

"Dat better?" he asked. The glow from the coat cast strange shadows on the half of his face that lay against the rock.

Rogue nodded. "When's this one going to blow up?"

"It'll fade out in a couple hours. Any luck, dis fog clear out befo' den."

"So we're just stuck here."

"_Ouais_. Sorry. T'ought we might get you home t'night."

"S'okay. I'm not missing much. Except maybe school. What day is it?"

"Dunno."

"Me, neither. I hadn't thought about it all day."

"You too busy laughin' at me."

Rogue smiled. "Maybe."

Remy grinned, too, and his eyes wandered across her face with such strange intensity that Rogue felt herself start to blush. She dropped her gaze from his face and curled in on herself a little tighter.

"Still cold?" he asked.

"Only a little."

He writhed around so he was lying on his side instead of his stomach. "_Viens_."

Rogue eyed him nervously, but there was no sign of smugness on his face now. "What if Ah touch you?" she asked again, but the question came out as no more than a whisper.

He reached out to her face, and though she flinched, he brushed her streak out of her eyes and behind her ear without any hesitation. "Do you trust me, Rogue?"

"Not as far as Ah could throw ya."

Remy didn't smile. "No jokes. Do you trust me?"

No jokes? Rogue didn't think she could even talk to him without jokes. But forbidden to dodge the question, she had no choice but to answer honestly. "Yes," she admitted. "Ah dunno why, but Ah trust you."

"Den believe me when I tell you dis: I won'let neither of us get hurt. _Viens._"

And Rogue obeyed, fitting herself hesitantly against his warm body. He draped his arm across her back and guided her head to a comfortable spot against his chest, well away from his bare throat. "Comfy?"

"Mmm," said Rogue. She _was_ comfy—more comfy than she could have imagined being on a rock slab in the middle of the woods. He was _so _warm, and that warmth felt embarrassingly wonderful to her cold, sore body. The knotted muscles in her legs, back, and shoulders started to relax, and suddenly she realized just how tired she was.

Remy could evidently feel it, for he took a long, deep breath and eased his muscles as well. "_La voilà_. It's been a rough time fo'you, _chère_. I'm sorry."

"Just a couple days' hike," she murmured, her voice sounding rather muffled since she was talking into his shirt. "Ah'm doing okay. Even the blisters feel lots better."

"Once we movin' again, it's probably only a couple hours to Bayville. You be home 'fore you know it."

"Mmm," said Rogue. For some reason, this did not strike her immediately as good news. Her toes were still cold inside her canvas shoes; she curled them up, and Remy hooked his ankle over hers. The toes began to thaw at once.

"And once Ah'm home," she muttered, "what happens to you?"

"Is somet'in s'posed to?"

"What're you gonna do, Ah mean?"

There was a long silence. "_Dieu sait_," he murmured at last. "Somet'in', I guess. I always do."

"But you won't go back to New Orleans."

"_Non_."

"Why not?" Rogue kept her voice low, gentle but not accusing, knowing now how quickly questions about his past could make him clam up.

He sighed, and Rogue felt his hand start to stroke up and down along her spine, as though he needed something to do while he thought. "Y'smell good," he told her.

She 'hmph'ed. "Liar."

"Well, y'don' smell _clean_, da's a fact, but y'still smell _good_." He stroked her back a few more times and then said, "I cain't go back t'N'Awlins. I'll die if I go back."

Rogue didn't say anything.

"I been banished by my Guild. M'father, m'brother, mah friends . . . if dey ever see me again, dey kill me."

"Why?"

"Cause I killed a man."

Rogue lay in silence, listening to the soft sound of his heartbeat next to her ear.

"Mah brother-in-law," Remy elaborated.

"Ah didn't know yeh had a sister."

"Don't. I had a wife."

It took a moment for this to sink in. "Wait a minute . . . you're married?" as the words hit home, she demanded, louder and with a sense of rising panic, "You're _married?_"

"_Was_ married," Remy corrected. "Not anymore, prob'ly. Dey'll've got de whole t'ing annulled by now."

"Who was she?" Rogue was surprised at the way her voice sounded. She expected to sound angry; instead, the words came out as no more than a frightened whisper.

"Y'remember Julian? De one you sucked de brains outta? His sister. Belladonna."

Rogue remembered Julian. She'd been muttering to herself for a week after absorbing him. She didn't like him.

"She de Guildmaster's daughter. I was our Guildmaster's second son. Only makes sense. Y'marry up de two rulin' families, an' de Guilds stop havin' at each other. De feud was dangerous for everybody. Had t'be stopped somehow."

"Did you love her? Did you even know her?"

"Oh, yeah. Bella an' I grew up t'gether. I liked her all right. Probl'y wouldn'a married her if de politics hadn' played in, but I liked her. But Julian . . . well, y'know Julian better den I do. He didn' wan' his sister sold off to de T'ieves, 'specially t'me. So a couple hours after de weddin', he calls me out. We all take off into de bayou . . . him, me, mah bro'der _Robert_, couple o'de other Rippers . . . t'settle it. Julian was bad drunk. But I didn' have mah staff o'mah cards . . . still in mah tux an' all . . . an' Julian's a bulldog of a fighter."

The hand was still stroking rhythmically along her spine, but Rogue didn't think he'd noticed it for a while. His voice was soft and distant, as though his mind were a thousand miles away.

"He pulled a knife in de middle o'de fight. Too fast wid it . . . too heavy fo' me. He got me down on mah back, wid' de knife at mah throat. I had his hand, but I couldn't push him off, not straight up like dat. He had mah other arm pinned at de elbow, but I could still reach his face. I couldn't get at his eyes like I wanted, he kept twistin' away, but he never stopped pushin' on dat knife. So I got my fingers onto his cheek, an' I thought, if I just zap him a little one . . . just a very little one . . . he'll get off me. So I charge' him up an' let go. I never done it to a person before. Less power den I need t'pop a kernel a'popcorn."

Silence reigned for a long time inside the tent. Finally Rogue worked up the nerve to ask, "What happened?"

"Heart attack," said Remy, and his voice now sounded flat and hollow. "We got 'im into de boat as fast as we could—Robert an' Bertrand started CPR—but we were miles from the city. He never had a chance. He was twenty years old."

Rogue had no idea what to say. She was lying next to a man who'd killed another man—who'd taken a human life. But she could hear how much the memory hurt him. The sudden tension of his whole body screamed misery. Her dream rose up in her memory, bringing with it the panic and confusion she'd tried to stuff into the back of her mind. She reached with her free arm around his back and hugged him as tightly as she could, partly to comfort him and partly to reassure herself. Remy hugged her back, his breathing suddenly ragged and shallow.

"I have a dream," she whispered, "every time I close my eyes. There's a woman with blond hair staring at me, and she's dying. I think I killed her. I think I killed her, Remy . . ."

"Ssshh. 'S all right. I know you, Rogue. An' I trust you. You no killer."

"Neither are you. It was an accident."

"Yeah," he sighed. "Dat's what I keep tellin' mahself."

"Yeah," Rogue agreed. She burrowed her face into the fabric of his shirt, inhaling deep lungfuls of his bourbon-and-cayenne-pepper scent. "Can we just stay in here and never come out?"

"Good plan," Remy murmured. She knew he was smiling, though she was unsure whether she'd heard it in his voice or felt it pressed against her hair. "I like it."

When Rogue drifted off to sleep, there were tears on her cheeks, but for once there was no nightmare to haunt her.

* * *

_Dieu sait_: God knows. 


	9. Chapter 9

_Storm overdid it_, Logan griped to himself as he prowled through the woods. The heavy mist hadn't obscured the scent as much as rain would have, but the trail was much fainter and visibility bordered on nonexistent. He'd all but abandoned the use of his eyes, relying on scent to guide him.

After more than two hours' intense tracking, the sun finally broke through the fog. Logan scrubbed his hand through his damp hair, letting the warmth seep through towards his scull.

As the light spread through the woods, he sniffed to regain his bearings. The scent was still there, stronger and clearer now. Logan peered through the retreating darkness and finally saw what he'd been hunting for days: the iconic tan duster.

It was rigged up into a makeshift A-frame tent, and from one end stuck four feet, two wearing boots and two wearing dirty canvas sneakers. Logan approached in silence, but none of the feet moved.

He took hold of the coat's edge with one hand, and with the other quietly sliced the lines that anchored it in place. He tossed the duster over the quarterstaff and let it fall to the ground while he surveyed the unexpected sight before him.

Gambit and Rogue were curled up together, as innocently as children many years younger. Rogue's makeup was gone, replaced with a few streaks of dirt and something around her mouth that might have been chocolate. Her clothes were crumpled and dirty, but both her gloves were still on, and a tiny smile quirked up the corner of her mouth. Gambit's face was half-buried in her hair.

Logan extended his claws until the points just barely pressed against the underside of Gambit's chin.

"Comfy?" he inquired when the young thief glared resentfully up at him through one half-open red and black eye.

"Was," Gambit muttered.

"Get up."

With remarkable caution, Gambit removed his arm from Rogue's back and tried to shift away without waking her up. His effort was wasted, however; Rogue reached out for him as soon as she felt her source of warmth depart, and her own reflexive movement jostled her gently awake.

"Mohnin', _chère_," Gambit murmured.

"How's about shuttin' up, Cajun?"

Rogue moaned and scrubbed at her makeup-less eyes. "Whuzza . . . ebeh . . . Logan?"

"Right here, Stripes."

"Oh, _Logan_!" Leaving her professor only just enough time to draw in his claws, Rogue flung herself into his familiar hug, trying very, very hard not to cry. "Logan, Logan, Ah'm so glad you found us . . . Ah don't remember anything, and there are all these nightmares, and she gave me so many drugs and Ah didn't know what happened to Kurt and Kitty and . . . and . . . Ah stole a pair a'shoes!"

Logan, not knowing what to say to this, just held her tight while she clutched the front of his jacket and shook with the combined stress of everything that had happened since Kitty had dragged her into the clothing store. It was the best thing he could have done. Within two minutes, Rogue had calmed herself down and was able to coherently answer simple questions.

"Are ya hurt, Kid?" Logan demanded, taking Rogue's chin in his hand (still clad in his biking glove) to turn her face so he could see any injuries.

"No, Ah'm fine."

"What'd she do to you?"

"Buncha drugs . . ." Rogue pulled back her sleeve to show Logan the peppering of hypodermic marks on the soft skin of her inner elbow. "Ah don't remember very much."

Logan didn't comment on the sight, but a fierce, low snarl rumbled in the back of his throat. "Don't worry, Stripes. You're all right now. You're safe. You're going home."

Gambit, who was on his knee untying the remaining anchor lines from his coat, muttered something incomprehensible.

Logan looked up from his inspection of Rogue to send a malevolent glare in Gambit's direction. "And you want to explain what you're doing here, _Gumbo_?"

"Helpin' her," announced Gambit, shrugging the coat on. "Not that you'd believe me."

"Yeah. The _I love Magneto_ tattooed across your forehead ain't helpin' your credibility much."

"He was, Logan," Rogue protested. "He got me here all the way from Baltimore."

"And he can get all the way back there on his way back to the swamp where he came from."

"He ca—" Rogue started to snap, but one fierce glare from Gambit silenced her. "He's helped. He didn't have to, but he did."

"Yeah," Logan snarled. "A regular hero."

"_Yes_," Rogue insisted, but Logan wasn't listening to her. He whipped out his cell phone.

"Storm, I've got her. We're not far. No, I'll get her on the bike. It doesn't look like she's hurt, but she was pretty drugged up and her memory's shaky. Tell the Professor he'll need to have a look at her. Yeah." He snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

"You got a third party on dat call," Gambit told him.

"Mystique? Yeah. But by the time she gets her plane airborne again, we'll already be safe in the mansion."

"Mebbe you shouldn't be so cocky when y'playin' wid her life."

"Maybe you should shut up. C'mon, Rogue. We're only about half a mile from the coast road. It'll be an easier walk from there."

He took off without another word, at the easy jog he used for training runs. Rogue followed. Remy followed her.

"Ain't you got someplace to be?" Logan snarled.

"Till she safe inside wid de door shut behind her, I'm not lettin' her leave my sight," Remy announced, with blank finality. "We on public land, _n'est-ce pas_? _Selon la loi, il n'y a rien que tu peut faire pour m'arreter."_

_"Et tu saurais tous au sujet de la loi, mec."_

"Can we keep it in English, please?" Rogue begged.

"No need," said Logan. "The conversation's over."

"How's yo' feet?" Remy asked.

"Don't even feel them. Thanks, Remy."

"Remy?" Logan asked. "We're calling him 'Remy' now?"

"He's gotta have a name, don't he?"

Logan didn't have anything else to say to this. Within a few minutes, they broke free of the woods and emerged into the warm late afternoon sunlight. Before them, the highway stretched out of view in either direction, and beyond that the ground dropped away into the sparkling sea a hundred feet below.

Remy scanned the horizon, squinting a little against the light. "What was dat you were sayin' about Mystique not gettin' her plane back in de air?"

Logan froze, and a few seconds later Rogue heard it, too: a plane engine approaching from down the coast.

Logan didn't swear, although for a second it looked as though he wanted to. "She didn't land," he said through clenched teeth. "She circled through complete white-out for two and a half hours. _Lunatic_."

"De 56-320 carry plenty'a fuel on 'er," observed Gambit, nodding his approval of the aircraft.

Logan leveled a disapproving, suspicious glare at him, but when he spoke, he was all business. "Do we stand," he inquired of the company, "or do we run?"

"She's got Avalanche, Pyro, and Quicksilver," Rogue offered.

"Pietro," Logan snarled. "Okay, running's out." He pulled out the phone again, then shoved it away after a few seconds. "No dial tone. She's blocking us."

"So no backup?" Gambit asked mildly. He pulled a pack of cards from his pocket and started shuffling them. "Fine by me."

Rogue pulled her gloves off and stuffed them into her pocket. "Mystique doesn't get to push me around any more today," she announced.

"That's my girl," said Logan, pride in his voice. He donned his sunglasses and unsheathed his claws.

The plane did a neat little vertical landing in the middle of the road, and the engine died. The hatch swung open, and Mystique, Avalanche, Pyro and Quicksilver all descended onto the pavement. Avalanche hung back from the other three, looking determinedly at his feet. Rogue was hit by a vague memory of being undressed and re-dressed, and heat flared in her cheeks.

"_Bonjour_, gentlemen," said Gambit, smirking. "Wonderin' when you was gonna join de party. Long time, Pyro."

"Gambit, old chum! We really should go get a beer after this and catch up."

"Uh-huh." Gambit did not look interested in getting a beer with Pyro. The cards made a soft, menacing thrumming sound as they flipped through his fingers.

"Lance," Rogue called. Lance glanced at her for a second, then focused on his shoes again. "Lance, you walk away from this, and Ah won't tell Kitty you was ever here. Never happened."

He didn't react, but Rogue could see him thinking. She'd known him for a long time, and knew that he was more stupid than evil. If she could get him to walk away, the fight would be three on three. One opponent closer to the safety of the mansion. One fight farther from that airplane, with its needles and its nightmares.

Quicksilver scoffed at her, but she ignored him.

The two adults, meanwhile, were ignoring everyone and everything. A tsunami could have come sweeping over the highway and they wouldn't have so much as twitched.

"Logan," said Mystique.

"Raven," said Logan.

"How's Rogue feeling?"

"She's been better. The needle tracks were a nice touch."

"I didn't hurt her."

"That's up for debate."

"I've got to take her back, Logan. You have no idea what you're dealing with. I'm the only one who can help her now."

"From where I stand, it doesn't look like she's in need of too much help."

"It's only a matter of time."

"Shut up," Rogue snapped. "Just shut up, Mystique."

"Give her back to me, Logan," Mystique ordered.

"No."

"Her life's at stake!"

"And yours isn't?" Logan twisted his fists, letting the afternoon sun glint along the curved length of his claws, sparkling at their deadly points.

The two adults were locked in one another's gazes. For a long heartbeat, no one moved. Then Mystique shrieked, Wolverine lunged, and hell broke loose all around.

* * *

And once again, your **French lesson for the day**. We actually got a few hefty sentences in this time.

_n'est-ce pas_? Isn't that right?

_Selon la loi, il n'y a rien que tu peut faire pour m'arreter. _According to the law, there is nothing that you can do to stop me.

_Et tu saurais tous au sujet de la loi, mec. _And you would know all about the law, bub.

By the bye, yes, Logan does speak some French. Among the dozen or so other languages floating about in his rather confused head.


	10. Chapter 10

Rogue found herself face-to-face with Pyro. She could hear Mystique shrieking and Logan snarling, and hear the _zip_ of Pietro maneuvering at full speed, but she could see nothing but the opponent in front of her. She spared one precious second to hope that Remy and Logan would be all right before focusing on her own fight. The most she could do for her friends now was to take care of herself.

She maneuvered warily back, waiting for the first jet of flame to come snaking at her from the fuel nozzles mounted on Pyro's wrists. He was grinning, but his eyes were cautious as he watched her move. _Prob'ly has orders not to kill me_, Rogue thought. _Ah'm no good tuh Mystique if Ah'm dead. _With such a restriction, he couldn't use his flame jets to kill her—only to hurt or frighten her. And Rogue could deal with being hurt and frightened.

She charged Pyro, then dropped into a roll as he sent a wave of flame scorching at her to ward her off. For a brief second, she felt the air turn dry and blazing hot around her, but just as quickly it was gone. She couldn't feel any burns, though whether this meant she'd escaped unscathed or whether it meant she was too high on adrenalin to feel anything, she couldn't tell. She rolled to her feet and sprang forward again. Pyro jumped back, and a fiery dragon reared up in the space between them.

It reared its pointed head back, then snapped down at her. Rogue threw herself sideways, landed on her bare hands, flipped, and recovered her feet. The dragon slithered into the space where she'd been, making her circle around so her back was to the airplane. It lunged again, but she leapt lightly back so that its head plunged into the asphalt at her feet, leaving a smoking hole and the smell of burning tar.

_It's just lahk fightin' Bobby in the Danger Room,_ she realized as the dragon re-formed itself. _If he just makes me keep playin' with his projections, he'll wear me out before he even breaks a sweat. Ah gotta git at _him_, where mah powers can work. It'll be even easier than with Bobby. Ice is solid. Fire's just hot._

She squinted against the light, ash, and smoke and located Pyro, standing between the dragon's front claws. Its head was back in shape now, looming over him. He wasn't very far at all. It was just the dragon's head that gave her pause . . .

_An' it's only burns. Ah kin handle burns._

She charged straight forward into the flames.

With a flick of his hand, Pyro brought the dragon's head crashing down at her, but she put her head down and charged right through it. She felt her clothes catch, but ignored them. Burdened with all his equipment, Pyro couldn't dodge away from her fast enough. Her bare palm slapped onto his cheek and stayed there.

The sea of fire vanished. Even her burning shirt snuffed out. Rogue saw oceans of flame in her mind, saw a vast Australian desert, saw Magneto towering, saw herself dazed with drugs . . .

She pulled her hand away. Pyro crumpled to the pavement, unconscious.

"Ah got Pyro!" she shouted, both to alert Gambit and Logan and to drown out the panicked Australian twang that was bouncing around inside her skull. "Ah got Pyro!"

Other voices rose up now . . . Sabertooth and Magneto, Storm and Scott, Mystique and Kitty and Kurt and _Carol_ . . . no, she wouldn't hear that voice. She _wouldn't_.

She tried to coax flames from her hands, but none would come. "Ah need a light!" she shouted to the battle at large.

"_Voilà, chère!"_

She turned to see Gambit give Quicksilver a smart blow to the gut with the streak of flashing silver light that was his quarterstaff, then pull a card out of his pocket. As he flicked it into the air towards her, it ignited, trailing fire as it fell.

She swallowed up the fire inside her soul, willed it to new form, new size . . . as she spread her hands apart, it became a flaming arch, a serpent . . . It slithered and raged through the fight, seeking an enemy, trying at all costs to avoid friends . . .

So many voices in her head . . . so confusing . . . she couldn't see . . .

"Rogue, NO!"

Too late. A forgotten coil of flame sneaked into the open hatch of the airplane, devoured anything it could find . . . and then the massive fuel tanks went . . .

Rogue felt the explosion through Pyro's power before she either heard or saw it. Then it hit her like a brick wall, even though it was only hot air, and she was lifted from the pavement . . . little bits of airplane flew all around her, stinging her skin . . . As the force of the blow flipped her over and over, she saw the cliff go sailing by below her, and then there was nothing left but the spectacular fall to the sea . . .

And then something else flickered in Rogue's mind.

In the middle of her headlong flight from the highway to the hungry, thundering ocean below, she felt exhilarated. She _loved_ being airborne.

And she decided to stop falling.

For a long, very long, unbelievably long second she hung, resting on nothing, her head pointed towards the sea and her hair hanging crazily away from her face. And she didn't fall.

The world looked funny upside-down. The airplane was still falling to earth like confetti. She could see Mystique, still in a battle-crouch, her chest heaving as she struggled to regain her breath, a triple slash in her shoulder dripping blood. Quicksilver was staring up at the suspended Rogue, his eyes bugging in astonishment. Gambit had blackened one of them, and had singed some of the white-blond hair off his head. Quicksilver had given Gambit a bloody lip, but other than that Gambit seemed to be fine. There was no sign of Avalanche.

Logan lay half underneath a twisted piece of the fuselage, his claws still extended. They'd left six vicious marks in the asphalt where he'd buried them in an attempt to resist the force of the explosion. He'd been closest to the airplane when it blew. Rogue could see burns from the flames, bleeding wounds from the shrapnel, and bruises from Mystique scattered across his face and arms. Something in the back of Rogue's head knew that this sight aught to upset her, but she couldn't quite feel it. The whole thing was like a movie, or a scene from someone else's life.

She twisted herself right way up, even though there was nothing to push against, and curled one foot up underneath her, letting the other hang as though she were sitting on the railing of her balcony. She felt completely secure. She was sitting on, lying on, standing on, leaning against absolutely nothing, and she felt as safe and comfortable as though she were in bed at the mansion. The wind caught the streaks of her hair and sent them dancing across her face.

_Ah'm alive._ She started breathing again. _More than alive. Ah'm flyin'. _

Then she started to laugh. The whole huge, unimaginable sky was her playground. She was as free as a cloud, free as lightning, free as the stars themselves. Another voice in her head was laughing with her, but she didn't care. She was glad of someone to share this with, this amazing feeling of flight.

She swung herself around, as though she were hanging on a rope in the mansion gym, only there was no clumsy rope to limit her movement now. Then, head-first, she went speeding toward earth.

Quicksilver was staring at her, but as she dove to him, he suddenly remembered his feet and took off at full-speed down the road. Rogue kept pace with him easily; there was no gravity to slow her now. He might have been able to out-maneuver her, but in his panic he went straight, trying to outdistance her as he outdistanced everything else that had ever chased him.

Rogue caught him under the arms . . . he weighed next to nothing; she could have crushed his ribs to powder without straining herself . . . and lifted him into the air. His legs were still pumping, acting almost like a propeller, unsettling her flight pattern. She adjusted her course to compensate for it and soared in a broad arc out over the sea. The wind went singing through her hair as she dived. The thrill was incredible. Only Pietro, squirming and screaming in her grip, seemed to feel fear.

She leveled out over the ocean's surface, plunging Pietro waist-deep into the freezing water. A 'V' of white foam went blazing out behind them. She slowed and dropped him, leaving him to splutter and curse as he fought his way to shore.

She swung back up above the level of the road, laughing, rolling in the air as though she were playing in a pool. She could feel warm air rising in coils around the burning wreckage of the airplane. Logan still lay next to it, unconscious, but the marks of his wounds were already starting to fade. Mystique was staring up at her with an expression of rapturous triumph. But Remy was grinning at her, and laughing. He started to run along underneath her, reaching one arm up towards her as though he could touch the sun.

"_La voilà, ma chère! Allez, allez, allez!_"

Rogue dove and scooped him up, one arm around his waist, his arm around her shoulders. With him laughing beside her, she shot straight up, fast enough to catch the blue of the sky in her free hand. Then she spun and circled, dancing, making Remy grab onto her with both arms to keep from spinning away into free-fall, both of them laughing and whooping and knowing that there was nothing in the entire world more beautiful, more magnificent than this.

"ROGUE!" Mystique shouted. Rogue looked down, annoyed, much more interested in playing with her new powers than in listening to anything Mystique might have to say. "Your mind is damaged. You can't yet cope with the powers I've given you. Unless we bring it under control, the strain will kill you. Come to me. I'm the only one who can help you now."

"I would much prefer to die like this than to permit you to touch me again," Rogue answered. A distant corner of her mind worried that her voice sounded different, but since she agreed heartily with everything it had said, she didn't much care.

"Stop being stubborn," Mystique ordered. She reached out a hand. "Come to me. _Right now_, Rogue."

Rogue felt her temper boil up inside her. She dove toward Mystique but stopped dead ten feet away from her, just close enough to the ground to let Remy slide down to it. "You stay away from me if you know what's good for ya, Mystique." It was hard to be afraid of a being that could not fly.

Mystique's eyes filled with cold calculation for a moment, studying the set of Rogue's jaw, the defiance in her eyes, the dangerous smirk of the young man at her right hand. And she changed. Her blue skin became pale; her red hair poured out into a long wave of gold. Before anyone could move, Carol Danvers stood before them, glaring at Rogue with fierce accusation.

"You're killing me, Rogue! _You're killing me!_"

Something inside Rogue's head exploded with pain. Two Carol Danvers screamed their anger and fear at her, one outside and one in. She clutched her throbbing head between her bare hands and screamed—screamed the harsh, grating shriek of agony that she knew from her nightmares. The noise that she made was so loud, and so horrible, that for a moment it drowned out all other voices. She could think clearly for one brief second, and in that one second she knew that the woman standing before her was not herself, was not Carol, but was a walking lie that could not be allowed to torture her anymore.

She swooped forward and drove her fist straight into Mystique's face.

Several things then happened very fast. First, Mystique flew fifteen feet and landed in the grass at the other side of the freeway. By the time she hit the ground, she was back in her true form, which lay unmoving where it fell. Second, Mystique's mind hit Rogue's with the force of a sledgehammer, full of bitterness and cold calculation. Third, Rogue felt her body dissolve around her, a sickening, fluidic sensation, and when the feeling stopped she knew that she was not who she had been. Blond hair danced across her face.

"Rogue!" Remy seized her by the sleeves and pulled to get her attention, though he was nowhere near strong enough to force her to put her feet on the ground. "'Sokay. 'S just Mystique's powers. You can use 'em. _Reviens_. Come back. Come on back, now."

She tried, though by now she wasn't sure where she was supposed to come back from. _Rogue_ . . . the name was hers, yet not hers. She remembered a girl, a teenager from Mississippi, that might have been her . . . there was no way to be sure. She dissolved her body and came back in the proper form, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed adult woman . . . no, that wasn't right.

"You're Rogue. From the Xavier Institute. Y'go to Bayville High School an'y'save de world on weekends. This other person ain't you. Don't you let go, Rogue. You know who y'are. Come back, an' you can go home."

She tried again, got confused, returned to where she'd started. No, this had to be right . . . this form felt familiar. But the voice of a southern girl was screaming inside her mind, desperate to escape and to go home—

And then there was Logan. His face was smeared with drying blood and he was limping a little, snarling at the last traces of pain in his newly-healed body, but he was there. And he was _mad_.

"ROGUE!" he roared, with a voice that could be heard over a Danger Room-ful of out-of-control teenage mutants. "Put your own face on _RIGHT NOW_ and tell me what in heck you think you're doing!"

And training kicked in. She obeyed without thinking about it; her mind and body knew that when Logan used _that_ tone of voice, her life depended on immediate obedience. Rogue felt her body waver, shrink, and reform, and knew the shape to be her own. A voice in her head started screaming, and though she knew it wasn't her voice, it was agony all the same. She dropped to the ground, and its disconcerting solidity sent a shock up her legs and back. Her knees buckled. Remy caught her.

She felt the ground lay itself along her back, and found herself staring up at the immense blue sky. It was so far away . . . she couldn't reach it . . . the ground was pulling at her like a magnet, pressing her whole body into the dirt . . . she was smothered, she was drowning, buried under miles and miles of air . . . and Carol would not stop screaming . . . and crying, Carol was crying, and Rogue could not comfort her—

"Stay with us, Rogue," Logan ordered, and the almost-tangible strength and love in his voice helped her to keep breathing. "Who'd she absorb?"

"Pyro an' Mystique," said Remy. "An' me, yesterday."

"Who'd she absorb that's making her _fly_?"

"_Ma foi_, I dunno. She been havin' nightmares about a blonde woman who was dyin', but I ain't left her side since she fell outta dat airplane and she ain't touched nobody but us three."

_Carol_. Rogue could tell them everything they needed to know about Carol—where she'd been born, how she'd come into her powers, her telephone number, her favorite salad dressing—but she could barely breathe, from the gravity, could barely think from the screaming. Blackness pressed in around the edges of her vision, like she was drowning, and everything she knew to be real withdrew from her, leaving her alone with the frantic, crushing mind of Carol Susan Danvers—

* * *

"Rogue?" Gambit demanded. "Rogue, talk t'me!" 

Logan grabbed his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket and snapped it open. "Hank, get the jet out here. We gotta get Rogue to the Professor _now_. We're on the coast road, about fifteen miles down from the mansion. Just look for the smoking crater." He placed his hand under Rogue's nose as he snapped the phone shut. "She's still breathin', as far as that goes." He looked down the road, southward, away from the mansion. "My bike," he muttered to himself.

"I'll go and get it," Gambit offered.

"Yeah. Right."

"I's either dat o' you leave me hea' wid Rogue an' get de bike yo'self. Which one you gonna risk me stealin'?"

Logan surveyed him, eyes narrowed, trying to detect a lie. "If I hand you the key, where is my bike going to be in an hour?"

"On de front drive a'de Xavier Institute, 'thout a scratch."

"And what can you give me to assure me that happens?"

Gambit gestured to the unconscious Rogue. "Y'already got it. I ain' leavin' her 'till she safe."

Logan snarled and fished the key from his pocket. "I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth if you're lyin'."

"If I was lyin', I'd already be gone wid yo' bike."

Logan tossed him the key. "She's at the point where you two left the road. Take the freeway up. It's faster."

Gambit was already gone.

* * *

Logan watched him go, fighting the urge to chase him down and punch him out. Dread for his motorcycle was squeezing around his heart. He forced his eyes down to where Rogue lay on the pavement. She was still breathing. 

The phone was out again. "Nick, I've got your airplane. Don't play stupid with me—the spy plane Mystique stole. She's here, too, out cold . . . for the moment. And . . ." he wavered for a moment, debating which number he should choose. He finally decided, "_one_ of Magneto's Acolytes. Just come up the coast south of Bayville until you see the smoke. There ain't much left of the plane, but that's the way the dice fall. Consider it yet another favor you owe me."

He snapped the phone closed and stuffed it into his pocket, then checked on Rogue again. "Hang in there, Stripes," he told her, combing the white streaks out of her face. "Help's comin'. Just hold on."

* * *

The bike was exactly where Logan had said. It was a beautiful thing: power and speed incarnate. Gambit began to regret promising not to steal it. Nonetheless, when he donned the helmet and gunned the engine to life, he turned northward. 

The bike cleared one hundred miles an hour without the faintest whine of protest. Gambit accelerated until the engine started to scream. He tore through Bayville, missing cars by inches, ignoring the cries of protest that erupted in his wake. As he covered the miles between the town and the mansion, he heard the X-Jet go screaming overhead. It swung out over the ocean—probably to get a good angle on its landing bay, wherever that was. He came screaming to a stop outside their gate and slammed his fist on the intercom button.

A vaguely familiar girl's voice crackled through. "Yes?"

"Dis Gambit. Open de gate."

"_Gambit?" _the voice demanded. "Magneto's Gambit?"

"Gambit wid Logan's bike. I promise' him I bring it back."

Silence reigned for a long moment on the other end of the intercom.

* * *

As soon as the X-Jet stopped rolling, the landing ramp was down. Logan jumped off the end of it, Rogue held firmly in his arms. At the bottom of the ramp, as he'd hoped and counted on, was Kurt. 

He shoved Rogue into her brother's arms. Kurt staggered a little under the weight, but it hardly mattered, because as soon as Logan let go of her the two students vanished in a puff of sulfuric smoke.

Kurt was in the Professor's office before Rogue had a chance to hit the floor. Due to good planning, she hit the sofa instead. The Professor was already at hand, his fingers steepled as he did when he was concentrating.

_Thank you, Kurt_, the Professor thought to him, but his eyes were already focused on Rogue's face. Kurt took one second to look Rogue over, too see her rumpled clothes, her dirt-streaked cheeks, her eyes darting back and forth under their lids, her limbs twitching randomly as though she was in pain. Then he ported out into the hall, knowing, as everyone else in the house knew, that now there was nothing more he could do but wait.

* * *

Gambit had both hands on the fence and was bracing himself to scramble up it when the intercom crackled to life again. "We're sending someone out to—" 

"Just let him in, Red," said Logan's voice from the background. "He's the least of our problems."

"Logan! Your _face!_ Is that your blood?"

"Not all of it. Just open the gate already."

The gates finally retracted. Gambit swung back onto the bike, gunned the engine, and tore onto the grounds the moment there was clearance. He swerved up onto the drive and came to a halt directly in front of the steps.

The tall, statuesque redhead that he vaguely recalled seeing in combat came out of the front door to meet him. "Gambit? I'm Jean." She shook his hand and took the helmet from him.

"Where's Rogue?" he demanded.

"They've just taken her to the Professor. It . . . it may be a while before we know anything. Please, come in." Without giving him much of a chance to protest, she took him by the arm and led him into the house.

Their field commander, their teleporter, and Rogue's brown-haired best friend were all hovering in the front hall. They were all glaring at him with violent distrust, even Cyclops, who was managing to shoot the glare straight through his sunglasses. Gambit slipped his hand into his pocket and touched the cards inside, ready to charge and throw them the second the other mutants made a move against him.

"Everybody, you know Gambit," said Jean, her decisively polite tone daring any of them to cause trouble. "Gambit, this is Scott, Kurt, and Kitty."

"_Enchanté_."

"Does somebody want to explain to me why we let him in the house?" Cyclops demanded.

"He's been helping Rogue," Jean announced. "Logan said so. Well, he _thought_ so."

"So vhat happened to her?" asked Kurt.

"I'm not sure," Gambit admitted. "She wasn't sure. Just mixed-up images and a bunch of needle tracks in her arm."

"Whatever it was, the Professor will fix it," Jean reassured them. "Gambit, you're welcome to stay until we know something. But it might be a while, so you can have a shower and a meal in the meantime, if you want. I'll show you where everything is."

She headed up the main staircase. Gambit followed, still alert for more hostile X-Men lurking in the corners.

"You're about Scott's size," Jean observed. "You can borrow some of his things to change into. Just a second." She slipped into one of the doorways, then emerged holding a bundle of folded clothes. "The boys' bathroom is the second from the end. There's towels and everything in there. Be careful . . . the water gets kind of hot. If you put your things down the laundry chute, I'll see that they're washed and dried for you."

"_Merci._ Yo' hospitality's greatly appreciated, Miss."

"You helped Rogue when we couldn't," said Jean. "That's earned you much more gratitude than just a hot shower."

"If y't'ink that, you obviously don't know how precious a hot shower can be," said Gambit, a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth.

Jean smiled, then frowned as her eyes lost focus. "Excuse me, please," she murmured, turning away. "The Professor needs me."

* * *

_Ma foi_: my faith; on my honor. 


	11. Chapter 11

_Jean._

_I'm here, Professor._

_Find Rogue. She's hiding somewhere. Find her and keep her safe while I settle this._

_Yes, sir._

* * *

_Rogue? Rogue, are you here? Rogue, it's me, it's Jean. Please answer me!_

_Jean? Jean, oh Jean!_

_I've got you. Don't worry. It's going to be fine._

_There's someone else in here, Jean . . . inside mah head with me . . ._

_Take it easy. Don't panic. You've had other personalities in your mind before. The Professor helped you remove them, and he'll help you again now. He's taking care of it._

_But this is different! It ain't just a . . . a reflection, or a memory . . . this is a whole person! She's here, in my head, all of her! She's so angry . . . what did Ah do to her, Jean? Ah did somethin' awful._

_You did nothing wrong. Whatever has happened here, you are not to blame for it. We'll keep you safe._

* * *

_What happened tuh Gambit?_

_He's taking a shower._

_Huh. Figures._

_Are you giggling?_

_Yeah . . . but Ah think it's more 'cuz Ah'm panickin' then 'cuz Ah think somethin's funny._

_Giggle all you want. You're okay. He'll be there when we've got this sorted out._

* * *

_Jean? Rogue?_

_We're right here, Professor._

_I've done all I can here. We can leave now. Follow me, Rogue. It's going to be all right._

* * *

Rogue heard herself moaning. She opened her eyes and blinked, three times, very carefully. Her neck hurt. 

She lifted her head and found herself flopped on the couch in Professor Xavier's office. The Professor was in his chair, his eyes drifting slowly open. Jean was kneeling by the side of the couch, eyes closed, motionless. Then she gasped, shuddered, and snapped back to life.

"Thank you, Jean," said the Professor. "You were a great help. Could you possibly give us a moment, and go inform the others that Rogue will be making a full recovery?"

"Yes, Professor." Jean climbed to her feet, then took Rogue's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Rogue squeezed back. There were plenty of days when she didn't like Jean . . . her relentless perfection jarred endlessly on Rogue's battered self-image . . . but right now she was glad of having this telepathic older-sister figure to be calm and strong for her.

When Jean had closed the door behind her, Rogue sat up, holding her head. It was throbbing, nut not worse than she could stand.

"Now then, Rogue," said Professor X, steepling his fingers, "I have a great deal to tell you, and I'm afraid that little of it is good."

"Yeah," Rogue moaned. "Ah kinda figured." She wanted an aspirin, an ice pack, and a week in bed, but all these things looked like they were still a long way away.

"I saw your memories of the kidnapping. They are hazy, and well-guarded in the back of your mind, but there is enough there to reconstruct what happened. Do you feel that you're up to hearing it?"

"No," said Rogue. "But go ahead anyway." She laid her head back onto the couch, tipped sideways a little so she could still look at the Professor while he spoke.

She knew he could see how tired she was, and when he started to speak, he used his gentlest, most steadying voice, the one he'd used when she'd been a jittery new recruit all those months ago.

"Mystique used you to attack a woman called Carol Danvers, a mutant working with the U.S. military at a base in northern Florida. I do not know what connection Mystique had to her, but whatever the reasons for her choice of victim, she used Danvers to push your powers farther than they have ever been pushed before. I believe her goal was permanent power absorption. She has established that your capacity is virtually limitless. Your powers have been limited only by the time it takes the transfer to wear off. Without that restriction, you could very easily become the most powerful being this world has ever seen. I believe her hope was to control you with the drugs she administered."

"But it didn't work lahk she wanted . . . right?"

"Yes and no. She was obviously not expecting Miss Danvers's powers to protect you so effectively from her mind control drugs – or the several-thousand-foot drop from her stolen airplane. But, as she predicted, the powers you took have evidently not worn off."

"But all the time Ah wuz with Gambit . . . Ah wasn't flyin' then!"

"No. Just as you blocked out your memories of the attack, your subconscious mind sealed away the new powers you received, as well as all that you absorbed along with them. Without that protection, your mind would almost certainly have collapsed under the strain."

"Mah mind ain't done that before. Least, not while Ah had the powers still runnin' in me."

"That's because what you absorbed this time was far more dangerous to you. Instead of a random scattering of memories and personality traits, you absorbed Carol Danvers . . . all of her. She is there, inside your mind. Her body is only an empty shell now. Whether it is still alive, I cannot say."

Rogue shuddered and curled in on herself, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Ah killed her."

"Nothing that has happened was your doing. You are a victim as much as she is. In fact, you are both in the same danger now."

"What danger?"

"Carol Danvers was frightened and angry when you absorbed her, and frightened and angry she remains. She has been trying to fight her way out of your mind for days. When you tapped into her powers to save yourself, you gave her the opening she needed. But when she tried to seize control, your mind shut down to protect itself. Fortunately, Logan and Hank were able to bring you to me in time. I restrained her before she could do too much damage."

"Restrained her?" Rogue repeated. "Where is she now?"

"Still there, I'm afraid. I've locked her away in the deepest recesses of your psyche, but she is still there. There was little else I could do. I could not reason with her, could not make her see that destroying your mind would only kill you both."

Rogue wished she could be smaller . . . wished she could shrink away and vanish from a world where such awful things could be true. "What are we supposed to do? She doesn't deserve this, Professor. She never did anything wrong, and now she's trapped inside mah head, lahk a bad memory instead of a real person. Cain't yeh get her out, put her back?"

The Professor shook his head. "I know of no way. I'm sorry."

Rogue's breathing went from shaky to a series of shuddering hiccoughs, and she felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. It was suddenly cold in the office, but her sweaty neck was sticking to the leather of the sofa. Her stomach twisted around inside her, and she clamped her jaw shut. She'd already been sick in front of Remy; she couldn't bear to be sick again in front of the Professor.

"I feel that the best way to protect you both," the Professor continued, "is to supress your memories of her. For you to recall the attack or your subsequent nightmares might weaken the blocks I've erected. But I won't do it without your permission."

Rogue recoiled at the thought of losing her memories, but recoiled more from the thought of living with this awareness for the rest of her life. "There's really nothing we can do for her?"

"All we can do for her is keep her from hurting herself. Perhaps, one day, we may find a way to release her. Until that time, for you to be aware of her presence will only cause danger and suffering for you both. I can place release mechanisms on the blocks, so that in time, when your mind is strong enough to cope, you will remember."

"And when Ah'm strong enough, Ah'll be able to help her?"

"I don't know, Rogue. But anything's possible."

She shuddered, and wrapped her arms protectively around her abdomen. "How much do y'have to take?"

"Nothing that's terribly clear anyway: everything from while you were under the drugs, your nightmares, and most of this conversation." A small smile tugged at the corner of Xavier's mouth. "Most of your memories of the past two days will remain."

"And if you take mah memories of her, will the powers go to?"

Xavier shook his head. "I'm afraid that Miss Danvers's powers have been securely embedded in your kinetic memory, where even I cannot remove them. You will probably have them for the rest of your life."

Rogue shuddered. "When Ah was flyin' . . . it was the most amazing feeling. Ah loved it so much. But Ah couldn't do that again, knowin' who Ah stole it from, an' how. It ain't right, Professor. Can't you just . . . Ah dunno . . . make me forget Ah kin do it, or something?"

"Carol loved to fly, Rogue. It was the greatest joy in her life. I think it would be a greater disrespect to her memory if you squandered that gift. If you wish to honor her, use her powers as she intended to use them: to protect those who cannot protect themselves."

Rogue nodded, and in a choked whisper she said, "Okay." She bowed her head and let Xavier place his hands on either side of her face.

_Ah'm so sorry, Carol. Ah'm so, so sorry._

_For both of you, Rogue . . . forget._


	12. Chapter 12

It took Gambit a bit of exploration to find the kitchen. When he did, he found it occupied by Amara and Bobby (in his weeks of watching Rogue, he'd learned the names of almost everyone in the school) who, supervised by Storm, were making dinner.

"Beg y'pardon," said Gambit, addressing the teacher. "_Mam'selle_ Gray said there might be something down here I could grab fo'a late lunch."

Amara and Bobby both stared at him for a long minute before turning to Storm for guidance. It was as though Apocalypse had wandered into their kitchen asking for a snack.

But Storm inclined her head without the slightest flicker of astonishment. "Of course. Dinner isn't ready yet, but there's plenty left over from yesterday. Few of us had much of an appetite." She went to the refrigerator and removed a Tupperware container. Gambit watched her move with appreciation and curiosity. She was graceful: no movement too hasty, no gesture unplanned. An inexperienced eye would have simply counted his quality as a part of her natural beauty, but Gambit knew better. The only people who moved like that were dancers and thieves.

She crossed to the microwave, but Gambit stopped her. "Don't bother." He took the Tupperware from her and charged it up. "_Merci_."

Scott Summers chose that moment to enter the kitchen. He stopped dead in the doorway and demanded, "Is that _my shirt_?"

Gambit grinned and squirmed his shoulders a little so he could feel the soft, expensive fabric rub across his back. "Pima cotton. Very nice."

"Gambit's clothes are in the washing machine," Storm informed him. "Jean lent him something to wear until they're dry. Did you need something?"

"Came to get a soda," said Scott.

"Have a cup of tea instead," Storm instructed. "You are agitated, and sugar will make it worse."

"Storm?" Hank McCoy stuck his head around the doorframe. "Can I get your help for a minute in the medical bay?"

"Certainly," said Storm. "What is wrong?"

"Logan's shoulder's dislocated."

Gambit raised his eyebrows. Logan hadn't even been favoring that arm. His pain tolerance had to be unbelievable.

"I am sorry to hear it," said Storm. "How would you like me to help?"

"Just come down. He won't swear when you're in the room, and quite frankly I'd like my ears to remain attached to my head while I reset the joint. I really think that his vocabulary's larger than mine."

Storm shook her head and sighed. "I will come. Amara, please see that the potatoes do not boil over."

"Sure, Storm."

Storm sent Scott a pointed, 'you-behave-yourself' look as she passed him in the doorway. Scott waited until she and Hank were gone, then took a Mountain Dew from the fridge and left. Gambit took a fork from the dishwasher and went to eat outside.

He circled the building as he ate, taking note of its impressive hidden defenses, its massive garage, its beautiful grounds. The curtains were drawn in Professor Xavier's office.

Once he'd finished the food—it had been a sort of stroganoff, bland to his Cajun palate but hot and nourishing—he returned the dishes to the kitchen and went in search of the laundry room. Somebody had already switched his clothes into the dryer. He let it run for a few more minutes, then pulled his things out and changed into them. Infuriating the Cyclops was all well and good, but Gambit felt safer in his own gear. Then there was nothing else to do but return to the entrance hall, where Rogue's friends were waiting in strained, nervous silence for some news from inside the office.

* * *

Jean emerged from the office more than an hour after she had gone in. Everyone in the entrance hall . . . Logan, Scott, Kitty, Kurt, and Gambit . . . jumped up, and Scott ran to put his arms around her.

"Rogue's going to be all right," she announced, letting her flushed forehead rest against that of her boyfriend. "At least, the Professor says so. Her mind is still . . . not quite right."

"How?" Remy demanded.

"I don't know. I'm not advanced enough in my telepathy to really understand it. And I need to take some aspirin and lie down."

"_Encore merci,_" Gambit murmured.

Jean smiled at him. "_Encore merci à vous._" Leaning on Scott's shoulder, she headed upstairs to her room.

"Satisfied?" asked Logan, and it took Gambit a minute to realize that he was the one being addressed. "She's safe."

"I heard," Gambit answered.

"So there's the door."

"No," Jean announced from the top of the stairs. Even though she was still pale and unsteady, her voice rang out in calm command. "Rogue wants him to stay. She'll have a fit if he's gone when she comes out."

The Wolverine, who could pick up grown girls with a dislocated shoulder, had no weapons to counter either Jean's argument or her determination. He sat down on one of the entrance hall's curtained benches, flexing and relaxing his fingers as though his claws itched to have at Gambit's head. Gambit ignored him. Instead, he took a seat on the floor with his back against the far wall, eyes closed, perfectly still. Through his eyelids, he could see the light in the room shift as Kurt resumed his perch in the chandelier.

Silence reigned in the Xavier Institute.

* * *

When Rogue opened her eyes again, it was dim in the office. She felt wary, frightened, as though any of her movements could trigger a bomb or an avalanche. She knew that there was something she was not, under any circumstances, supposed to think about, but she couldn't remember what it was and was afraid to try.

"Rogue?" asked the Professor. "How do you feel?"

"Uh . . . okay, Ah guess." Rogue sat up, trying to re-accustom herself to the unrelenting solidity of everything. The dreaded memory didn't immediately spring to mind, which was a good sign.

"Memory modification tends to make one feel . . . odd," explained the Professor. "I would advise you to go straight to bed. Can you walk?"

Leaning heavily on the arm of the couch, Rogue tried to stand, only to find the floor pitching annoyingly underneath her. Not in a mood to put up with this kind of thing, she removed herself from the floor and hung comfortably in the air. Much better. She drifted off towards the door.

"I did say _walk_," said the Professor from behind her, a touch of amusement in his voice.

"Ah'll walk when the floor stops actin' like a seesaw," Rogue grumbled. She pulled the door open.

"Rogue? Are you okay?"

"Rogue!"

Kurt and Kitty were on top of her at once. Both of them immediately launched into long strings of questions, leaving no time for her to actually respond to any of them. Other students came pouring into the hall, attracted by the sudden noise, all with noise and questions of their own.

"What happened? They wouldn't tell us anything. I'm so sorry we left you in the mall! Are you hurt? Did you know _Gambit's_ here? Sam saw you on the news; you fell out of an airplane! How did you escape? Where have you been? Are you all right? Are you all right?"

Then Kitty asked the question that brought the interrogation to a screeching halt. "Hang on . . . did you get _taller_?"

"Huh?" asked Rogue. She, along with everyone else, glanced down at her feet, which were still a comfortable four inches off the floor. "No. Ah'm just dizzy is all."

"You're not on the floor," said Kitty, in case Rogue had missed this rather obvious fact. "Did you absorb Jean?"

"No. Why?"

"Well . . . because you're _floating_."

"Y'all didn'know she could fly?" asked Gambit, smirking. "_Comme vous êtes bêtes! _Quite de left hook, too."

Rogue met his eyes across the crowd, a smile springing unbidden onto her face. He'd stayed to see if she was all right. It was so strange to see him standing there among her friends and teammates, like . . . . like a _real_ person. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd vanished into the last wisps of fog the moment she turned her back. But no—he'd stayed. And he was the only person not staring at her like she'd grown another head.

"Rogue," said the Professor gently, coming up behind her, "you really must go to bed. If you don't feel up to walking, Kurt can take you."

"Yeah." Kurt reached for Rogue's shoulder, but she pulled away.

"Just a sec," she told him. She drifted through the crowd to Gambit, ignoring how the other students made way for her. She had to say something to him before she fell asleep again, or he might vanish as abruptly as he'd appeared. But she didn't know what to say.

"Gambit—"

"Go sleep," he ordered her.

"Will yeh be there when Ah wake up?"

"If you want."

"Promise."

"_Ma foi_." He crossed his heart. Then he stood back so that Kurt could reclaim her attention and port her up to her room, where she promptly collapsed into bed. She was asleep before Kitty appeared to tell her that she needed to change into pajamas. This did not stop Kitty from making her change into pajamas anyway.

* * *

"X-Men," said Professor Xavier, addressing the crowd. Silence immediately fell in the hall. "I know that you're all glad Rogue has made it home safely, and that you all have a great many questions for her. I would ask that you keep your questions to yourselves for the time being. Rogue has been through a very trying experience, and needs time to adjust . . . as do we all. She will discuss all this when she is ready. Until then, please continue to offer her your love and support, no matter what changes may have come to her in her absence. Now I suggest you all go and wash up, as it is almost time for dinner."

Gambit was impressed with how quietly everyone seemed to take this. With a minimum of curious whispers, the group broke up. He saw Kitty take off upstairs, no doubt to join Rogue in the bedroom they shared.

"Gambit," said the Professor, "would you care to come in? I would like to have a word with you in private."

"He's armed, Charles," Logan grumbled.

"Yes, I know."

Gambit eyed the doorway warily. He could see straight off that the door wasn't wood: between the panels was a slab of metal. Of course, it made sense in a house full of young mutants to have the doors reinforced, but all the same, Gambit's instincts flinched. He didn't like being trapped. He'd had enough of that when he'd been working for Magneto.

Warily, he entered the comfortable and well-lit office. The wide windows gave him easy escape routes—unless the house went into lockdown, which the Professor could probably initiate without his even being aware. Gambit took a seat on the couch that Rogue had so recently vacated, sprawling languidly to give the impression he was much more at ease than was truly the case.

Professor Xavier pushed the door closed, then brought his chair over so he was face to face with Gambit. "I've seen in Rogue's mind all that you did for her," he began, "and I want to offer you our gratitude. Without your help, she would almost certainly have been captured, either by Mystique or by our honored colleagues in the U.S. Military."

Gambit inclined his head, acknowledging the praise without committing himself to anything.

"I'm eager to recompense you for your services."

Gambit raised an eyebrow. "What kinda recompense did'je have in mind?"

"Well, to begin with," said Xavier, "you're welcome to stay here until you're satisfied that Rogue is recovered."

"_Merci_."

"In fact, you are welcome to stay as long as you would like. I would be happy to count you among the X-Men."

Gambit grinned. "Me, an X-Man? You t'ink yo' bodyguard would approve?"

"Logan does not trust easily, but when his trust his earned, he becomes loyal to a fault. And he, like many others here, knows how difficult it can be to start your life over again. This is a place for new beginnings."

"Notwithstandin' de fact dat I've tried to kill just about every membuh of yo'team?"

"So did Rogue, before she joined us."

Gambit raised an eyebrow. "Bet she give you a run fo' yo' money."

"She was a formidable opponent. But she has been a valued member of this team for many years now, and no one here would have it any other way."

Gambit sighed. "Y'offer's mighty generous, Professuh. I might even'a took it. But I got some t'ings tuh settle before I take up de quiet life. Dis a one-time-only chance?"

"As long as I command the X-Men, the offer stands. You're free to go, if you need to, and you're welcome to return, if you can."

"Dey is one t'ing I'd like to do before I go, though."

"And that is?"

"Where'd yo'Golden Boy git to?"

The Professor smiled. "Ah, yes, I forgot. You and Rogue have a bet. Would you like me to have Scott give you a sparring session?"

"Nah. Jis' point me in de direction o'de Danger Room."

* * *

As soon as Gambit closed the office door behind him, Charles wheeled himself to his desk and picked up the telephone.

"Hello, Chris. This is Charles Xavier. I need to know about someone down at one of your Florida bases. I'm not sure which. The name is Danvers, D-A-N-V-E-R-S, Carol."

There was a long pause.

"Comatose? I see. Is there any brain activity at all?"

Another pause.

"M-hm. Thank you. Was she sufficiently insured? Enough to cover this kind of long-term care?"

Charles selected a pencil from a drawer and scribbled some numbers on his notepad.

"When the coverage runs out, call me. I absolutely insist. I'll see to everything. You needn't worry about confidentiality. Yes, I will. Thank you, Chris. Have a good night." The Professor returned the phone to its cradle and leaned back in his chair, sighing. "Perhaps," he murmured to himself. "Perhaps one day. But probably not."

* * *

Translations for the chapter:

_Comme vous êtes bêtes!_ Gosh, you're all stupid!

* * *

And a note from the author:

I know that you're all used to an update per day, and I'd love to continue providing that, in gratitude for all the wonderful feedback with with you have been showering me. Unfortunately, my younger sister and I have a date with southern California this weekend. So Chapter 13 will be here on Sunday at the earliest. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! But the long drive there and back will give me time to ponder and assemble my various plot bunnies into a coherent sequel . . . small comfort, I know, when you all want to know how Cyclops vs. Gambit turns out. I beg your patience, just for a few days. And feel free to lay your own wagers in the meantime.

I remain, your obedient

Seri R.


	13. Chapter 13

Scott was working with punching bags in the Danger Room when the door hissed open and Gambit came sauntering in. He had his hands in the pockets of his coat, and examined the room as though he were taking a tour.

"Can I help you?" asked Scott, in a cold, vicious voice that made it clear that 'help' meant 'maim.'

"Just lookin' around. Your Professuh said I could." He circled the bag Cyclops had been beating, giving it a gentle push so that it swung on its chains. "Said I could stay on, if I wanted."

"Yeah, well." Scott addressed the bag again and gave it a few solid punches. "That's his decision."

"An' puttin' you in command a'dese kids . . . dat his decision, too?"

Cyclops stopped hitting and eyed the circling Gambit. "It was." His tone was wary, guarded. Gambit tried not to grin. Summers could tell he was up to something, but he couldn't tell what. This was fun.

"So just about everybody in de house . . . includin' de Wolverine . . . takes orders from you, a pampered little prince not even twenty years old who never gone hungry a day in his life."

"That's all you know," Cyclops snapped.

"Done all yo' trainin' right here in dis little gym, wid safety shutoffs an' adult supervision an' a medical bay right down de hall. An' you t'ink dat kinda life entitles you t'lead a combat team?"

"The Professor thinks so."

"Ah,_ouais_. De Professor t'inks." Gambit pulled his cards from his pocket and started to shuffle them. He couldn't see Scott's eyes, but he would have bet anything they were locked on the fluttering deck. "De Professor t'inks I should join yo' team an' take orders from you. What do you t'ink?"

"I," said Scott, through a clenched jaw, "think you should get out of this house while you can still walk."

"'S a comfortable house. Big bedrooms an' a swimmin' pool an' all. I'd do a lot to live in a house like dis." Gambit glanced around the vast dimensions of the Danger Room, the cards never faltering. "But I learned somet'in' when I worked for Magneto. I don'like takin' orders."

"That's the price you pay," Scott deadpanned.

"Yep. You on de team, y'take orders from de team leader. An' you team leader . . . why? Because you de oldest? De strongest? De fastest? Because de pretty redhead likes you, an' everyone else likes her?"

Scott was silent. Gambit could almost feel the anger radiating off him.

"_Mais le voilà, mon gar_. I older dan you. I stronger dan you. I faster dan you . . . an' I can sneak your lovely Miss Gray out from under yo'nose without even tryin'. I sure do want to live in dis pretty house. An' maybe, 'f I mash yo' prettyboy face into de trainin' mat, de Professor an' yo'girlfriend t'ink twice about who got de best skills t'be leadin' dis team." Gambit flashed his most annoying grin. "Time fo' you t'step down, Shades."

"It's time for you to get out of this house."

"_Faites-moi sortir_."

* * *

Bobby came shooting into the kitchen, pinwheeling his arms for balance as he reached the end of his ice slide. "You guys you guys you guys! You gotta see this! Scott and Gambit are dukin' it out in the Danger Room!"

Preparations for dinner were abandoned. Kitty, Amara, Sam, Ray, Roberto, Kurt and Jamie went shoving and yelling up the hallway, each eager to be the first to see their field commander either administer or receive a kicking of the butt. They crowded into the Observation Room, which was crisscrossed with flashes of red and orange light as the two young men unleashed their arsenals upon one another.

"I wonder if it hurts more to get hit by the optic beam or one of the cards?" Jamie asked. "Wow, nice flip!"

"He's pretty good with that staff," Ray observed. "We should train with those."

"But not so much with the cards. He can't throw them fast enough to keep up with Scott."

"Hey!" Bobby protested. "That's my favorite workout bag!"

"Shut up, Bobby!"

"But I liked that bag! Look at it, all over the floor—"

"Woo-hoo! You show him, Cyclops! Nobody messes with . . . ouch."

"He's okay. See, he's up."

"Gambit's got to run out of cards sooner or later."

"Yeah, but will he run out of them before Scott's eyes get tired?"

"_Do_ Scott's eyes get tired?"

"Man!" Kurt griped. "I can't _believe_ Storm forgot to buy popcorn!"

"I've got some M&Ms in my pocket," Jamie offered.

"Eew," said Kitty.

"Ooo! Right in the chest!"

"Who? Who? I missed it! Oh, Gambit, right."

"He smacked his head pretty hard, too."

"Yeah, his balance is off. See how he wobbled right there?"

"Shouldn't somebody go tell Logan or somebody? They're going to get hurt."

"You're such a spoilsport, Amara."

"You guys you guys! I think he's down!"

The light show abruptly ceased. Everyone crowded to the window to see Gambit, nearly in the center of the room, sprawled onto his hands and knees. His head was bowed, his coat was only on by one arm, and his staff lay on the floor a few feet away. Cyclops warily removed his hand from the shutter of his visor, still tensed and ready for a fresh attack.

"Is he hurt?"

"Sssshhh!"

As everyone watched, Scott approached his downed opponent and offered his hand. Gambit wearily raised his head, his unsettling eyes radiating resentment and wounded pride. But Scott did not withdraw his hand, and after a long moment of hesitation, Gambit took it.

Then, so fast that no one could really see how it had been done, Gambit pivoted on one knee, swept Scott's feet out from underneath him, snatched up his staff, flipped upright, and planted the staff's end squarely against Scott's throat.

* * *

"_He! La donc, a la fin de l'envoi, je touche,_" Gambit recited. "Very well played, _mon ami_."

"You cheated," Scott accused.

"I did," Gambit acknowledged, slithering one arm back into his hanging sleeve. "I beg yo' pardon. I had a lot ridin' on dis fight." He spun the staff, collapsed it, and slipped back into the pocket of his coat. "Nex'time, we play yo'way."

Scott climbed to his feet and brushed off his uniform. "What do you mean, you had a lot riding on it? Like what?"

Gambit grinned. "Five courses an' cheesecake fo' dessert." He stuck his hand in his pocket, then scowled absentmindedly. "I'm gonna have t'get more cards. You used up my whole deck."

"Wait a minute . . . was this whole thing just a game to you?"

"Why? You not havin' fun?" Gambit smirked, then made an elaborate bow. "I will bid you good evenin', _M'sieur _Summers, an' I will leave yo'house at once. Kindly convey my compliments to yo' lovely lady friend."

Then, without another word, Gambit strolled out of the Danger Room and walked purposefully out of the mansion.

* * *

Rogue wasn't certain what it was that woke her up. She opened her eyes to her darkened bedroom. The only light was from the open balcony door, and the little flicker of red right in front of her face.

She gasped and jumped back against the wall. "_Gambit_!" she hissed, pulling her sheets up against her chest even though, thanks to Kitty, she was wearing her pajamas. "What are you doing in here?"

"Shhh. You want to wake up Kitty?"

Rogue obediently calmed herself.

"I promised I'd be here when you woke up."

"I was thinkin' more eight o'clock in the mornin' than . . ." she activated the Indiglo on her wristwatch. "Three."

"Yeah, but at eight o'clock Scott gonna be prowlin' de hallways again. He's a little upset dat I beat him so bad in de Danger Room."

"You_didn't_."

"I did. Ask anybody. Dey all saw it. So you bettuh start practicin' your cheesecakes, 'cuz I'm expectin' dat dinner y'bet me."

Rogue scowled. "When would yeh like it?"

"Soon's I get back."

"Git back from where?"

"I got some t'ings I need t'do."

The scowl turned into a look of dismay. "But . . . you're just gonna leave me here?"

"What 'here'? Y'make it sound like I'm leavin' you in a ditch someplace. Dis yo'home, ain't it? Or did I get de directions mixed up?"

"I thought . . ."

"What'd you t'ink?"

"That we were . . . I dunno . . . friends, I guess. Yesterday was fun. And Ah never told yeh thank you fer everything yeh did for me. Playin' cards, and seein' in the dark, and stealin' shoes and hikin' through the woods . . . and Kitty and Kurt are both lookin' at me weird, lahk Ah might explode, and in the mornin' Ah'm gonna have to explain why Ah kin suddenly fly when Ah'm not even quite sure mahself. Ah just kinda thought you'd be there, I guess." She turned her eyes from his to stare morosely down at the crumpled mess of blankets. "Serves me right fer thinkin' you'd wanna stick around."

"Hey." Gambit placed two gloved fingers under her chin and coaxed her face up to look at him. "Do you trust me?"

Mutely, Rogue nodded.

"Did'je hear me when I said I was comin' back?"

"Yeah."

"Den you got not'in' to fret about."

"But_when_ will you come back?"

"Well, dat depends. You gonna smile when you see me again?"

Rogue scowled, belligerently resentful of how easily he could play her, and how much he seemed to enjoy doing it. "Yeah," she admitted.

She caught a gleam of moonlight off his teeth as he flashed his trademark smirk. "Den I be back before y'know it."

He leaned toward her, and Rogue's heart caught and sputtered as he placed what was unmistakably a kiss in the disheveled mess of her hair. "_À bientôt, chère_."

In near perfect silence, he stood, crossed to the window, and disappeared over the railing of the balcony.

Rogue waited for one long, heart-pounding minute, then scrambled out of bed and ran barefoot across the carpeted floor. Her head swam, and she gripped the glass-paned door to steady herself. When her vision cleared, she stared through the darkness as far as she could, but all was empty and still on the silent, shadowy grounds.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **

Thanks for all the patience! I had a great time in California, but was anxious to get back to see all your great reviews and to post this almost-last segment of the story. Yes, almost-last: though I've left plenty of loose ends, I will be merciful and tie up at least one of them before the end.**  
**

Notes of cultural enlightenment:

_Mais le voilà, mon gar_ is, colloquially, "But here's the thing, dude."

_Faites-moi sortir_ is "Make me get out."

_He! La donc, a la fin de l'envoi, je touche. _This is a quotation from the play _Cyrano de Bergerac_ by Edmond Rostand. Though Gambit is certainly not a "literature" kind of guy, I couldn't help feeling that for this play he'd make an exception. Cyrano, the greatest swordsman and greatest smartmouth in all of French lit, is fighting a duel with a rich nobleman while simultaneously composing a poem about the duel off the cuff. This line, which closes the poem and ends the duel, translates to: "There. At the end of the refrain, I hit." It suggests having bested one's opponent and also having humiliated him.

Gambit also quoted this play earlier in the story. If you want to know where, go rent the film version with Gerard Depardieu. Go rent it even if you don't care. It's a fantastic film.

Oh, and _à bientôt_, like almost all other French expressions of farewell, means "see you very soon."


	14. Epilogue

Rogue awoke in the middle of a sweltering August night to find a photograph under her bare hand.

She sat up and switched on her reading light, hoping that it wouldn't wake Kitty. At first, her bleary brain couldn't process the picture. Then it registered.

It was a picture of Remy LeBeau, sitting on the shoulders of the Winged Victory of Samothrace.

She looked up. The balcony door was open.

Smiling as she hadn't in months, Rogue flew down to the moonlit lawn to welcome Remy home.

* * *

**Author's Final Notes:**

Thank you all so much, my faithful readers! Your feedback and suggestions have meant the world to me. When I started this piece, I had no idea it would be received so well, so I made no concrete plans for a continuation. But I would very much like to expand on what I've started here. I have plenty of ideas that are slowly sifting themselves into a coherent plot, but I'd welcome any ideas you guys have for plots or scenes you'd like to see. I won't start posting until I have a story mostly done, so I can continue to provide rapid updates, but that means it's going to be a while until I start posting. So keep an eye open, go about your lives, and hopefully before you know it we'll be back in business again.

Wishing all of you all the best,

Seri


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